the ever-expanding eli
Weights up five pounds, satisfaction up twenty percent. I added the extra five pounds to my dumbbells today. I did this before I worked out with them. It was easier than I expected - perhaps I haven't degenerated as much as I had thought. Never the less, despite the comparative ease, I feel a sense of satisfaction at having raised the bar and vaulted it. I am encouraged and re-motivated to continue to my goal. I was once in great shape and by god I will be again.
I also succeeded in touching my eyeball with a q-tip for a few seconds. No, I am not just attempting to discover how many orifices (orifii?) I can poke a q-tip into, I am attempting to desensitive myself to eye-pokery in general. If I can do that, perhaps I will be able to wear contacts, use eye drops when my eyes have become red due to the inhalation of incinerated canabis sativa sans semila, and get the glaucoma tests that I so desperately require.
Speaking of poking smot, I haven't done that in ... what, a month or more? I'll surely have more opportunities come the fall semester - it will be nice to exercise my will power. Damnit for me wanting to learn math and science. If only I were an english major, or even a psych major w/o an interest in bio and chem, then herb would be an asset instead of the liability it is to me now. Ah well, it makes me lazy. I shall have to reserve it for those days I am writing or lazing.
ah yes, and my back hurts from moving things (THANKS PAUL! THANKS SARA W/ NO H!).
um. yeah.
I must miss writing, because I'm not stopping. Here's a true story. Feel free to post about the writing. (criticism even!)
The road was rough - we knew because we could feel every bump in it. Paul's van had long forgone the frivolous pleasantries of shock support or hydrolic struts. After a random interval, but invariably no longer than five minutes, had passed the asphalt and tar carpet beneath us would interrupt our conversation with an impolite bang. The road was an angry neighbour banging on their ceiling - our floor - telling us to shut up. We would swallow hard, perhaps groan, and then continue talking about lyrics or women. Beer or electronics. Sarah was with us - the special kind of us that is only shared between people who have gained a true friendship, a cameraderie based on shared history and trust - and yet we talked mainly of 'guy shit.' Guy shit keeps away the wolves at night. Guy shit is common ground, and a woman who can enjoy it is a rare commodity. Nevertheless, we'd be jocular - laughing or smiling, commenting on Paul's work or my possessions (the reason for our trip) in the backseat - when our rude neighbour would interject. He never had anything to say, but it shook us anyway. It would not be long until the droning of black rubber on black highway would sooth our nerves, but even the frazzling of uncertain machinery carting us around at several times the speed of feet could not keep us completely alert, and so it was decided by the council of three to stop for coffee.
if this were a novel, here i would right three chapters about the magical nature of our most repulsive and yet attractive beverage - Coffee. Java. Joe. Isn't all magic contradictory, or at least dichotomous?
With eyes heavy and hearts light we pulled into the parking lot of the wayne hills diner. For the fifth or sixth time that night I emptied the liquid contents of my intestines. The timer of the cement truck in my guts was definately not working, or else the mixture was off. We ordered only coffee and water, and our conversation was equally insubstantial, for a time. Again, the world would not leave us be. Our little apartment - constructed of scratched table, torn butt-cushioning and etched glass, populated by coffee, water, thin creamers and fat sugars - was this time invaded by the conversation in the booth beside us. Two haggard women were sitting opposite each other, one young and one old but both obviously worn by years that passed none too swift. Their desperately pleasant conversation was interrupted by frequent angry cell phone conversations. At some point the pink cell phone, decorated with roses, was offered to me - drawing their conversation from the background to the forefront.
I took the obnoxious, pink plastic device. It was blaring some MIDI show tune. I held it with all the affection I would show a two headed kitten, and the same questioning look.
"Answer it, just take care of this would you?" My instructions from the elder of the two women on the other side of the suddenly too thin glass partition. I answered it, reluctantly.
Hello?
"Who is this? Put my mother back on," was the greeting I received from a hostile youth with an urban accent.
To whom am I speaking, I asked, and was answered with a gruff whothefuckayou. I was then struck by the irony of being told by tiny pink plastic cell phone, decorated with hot pink budding roses, that if I didn't put it back on with it's mother that it would "come down there and slap me in the teeth." I did my best to seem as unimpressed as I was, and eventually gave the phone back to the woman who had thrust it upon me.
thus had I become entangled in an abusive relationship between the younger woman, her enormous boyfriend, her brother (the fellow on the phone) and her mother, the woman with whom she was sharing drinks and stories. She was there, we were informed, because her boyfriend had beaten her, and not for the first time. He had raped her, he had struck her, he had broken her finger. She was laughing when she told us, she was smiling the whole time. They had been together five years, and this wasn't an isolated incident. We all tried to be casual, not to be patronizing or jocular. Not too concerned but not callous, either.
the world just is not the same for days after you hear something like that, especially not at night.
I also succeeded in touching my eyeball with a q-tip for a few seconds. No, I am not just attempting to discover how many orifices (orifii?) I can poke a q-tip into, I am attempting to desensitive myself to eye-pokery in general. If I can do that, perhaps I will be able to wear contacts, use eye drops when my eyes have become red due to the inhalation of incinerated canabis sativa sans semila, and get the glaucoma tests that I so desperately require.
Speaking of poking smot, I haven't done that in ... what, a month or more? I'll surely have more opportunities come the fall semester - it will be nice to exercise my will power. Damnit for me wanting to learn math and science. If only I were an english major, or even a psych major w/o an interest in bio and chem, then herb would be an asset instead of the liability it is to me now. Ah well, it makes me lazy. I shall have to reserve it for those days I am writing or lazing.
ah yes, and my back hurts from moving things (THANKS PAUL! THANKS SARA W/ NO H!).
um. yeah.
I must miss writing, because I'm not stopping. Here's a true story. Feel free to post about the writing. (criticism even!)
The road was rough - we knew because we could feel every bump in it. Paul's van had long forgone the frivolous pleasantries of shock support or hydrolic struts. After a random interval, but invariably no longer than five minutes, had passed the asphalt and tar carpet beneath us would interrupt our conversation with an impolite bang. The road was an angry neighbour banging on their ceiling - our floor - telling us to shut up. We would swallow hard, perhaps groan, and then continue talking about lyrics or women. Beer or electronics. Sarah was with us - the special kind of us that is only shared between people who have gained a true friendship, a cameraderie based on shared history and trust - and yet we talked mainly of 'guy shit.' Guy shit keeps away the wolves at night. Guy shit is common ground, and a woman who can enjoy it is a rare commodity. Nevertheless, we'd be jocular - laughing or smiling, commenting on Paul's work or my possessions (the reason for our trip) in the backseat - when our rude neighbour would interject. He never had anything to say, but it shook us anyway. It would not be long until the droning of black rubber on black highway would sooth our nerves, but even the frazzling of uncertain machinery carting us around at several times the speed of feet could not keep us completely alert, and so it was decided by the council of three to stop for coffee.
if this were a novel, here i would right three chapters about the magical nature of our most repulsive and yet attractive beverage - Coffee. Java. Joe. Isn't all magic contradictory, or at least dichotomous?
With eyes heavy and hearts light we pulled into the parking lot of the wayne hills diner. For the fifth or sixth time that night I emptied the liquid contents of my intestines. The timer of the cement truck in my guts was definately not working, or else the mixture was off. We ordered only coffee and water, and our conversation was equally insubstantial, for a time. Again, the world would not leave us be. Our little apartment - constructed of scratched table, torn butt-cushioning and etched glass, populated by coffee, water, thin creamers and fat sugars - was this time invaded by the conversation in the booth beside us. Two haggard women were sitting opposite each other, one young and one old but both obviously worn by years that passed none too swift. Their desperately pleasant conversation was interrupted by frequent angry cell phone conversations. At some point the pink cell phone, decorated with roses, was offered to me - drawing their conversation from the background to the forefront.
I took the obnoxious, pink plastic device. It was blaring some MIDI show tune. I held it with all the affection I would show a two headed kitten, and the same questioning look.
"Answer it, just take care of this would you?" My instructions from the elder of the two women on the other side of the suddenly too thin glass partition. I answered it, reluctantly.
Hello?
"Who is this? Put my mother back on," was the greeting I received from a hostile youth with an urban accent.
To whom am I speaking, I asked, and was answered with a gruff whothefuckayou. I was then struck by the irony of being told by tiny pink plastic cell phone, decorated with hot pink budding roses, that if I didn't put it back on with it's mother that it would "come down there and slap me in the teeth." I did my best to seem as unimpressed as I was, and eventually gave the phone back to the woman who had thrust it upon me.
thus had I become entangled in an abusive relationship between the younger woman, her enormous boyfriend, her brother (the fellow on the phone) and her mother, the woman with whom she was sharing drinks and stories. She was there, we were informed, because her boyfriend had beaten her, and not for the first time. He had raped her, he had struck her, he had broken her finger. She was laughing when she told us, she was smiling the whole time. They had been together five years, and this wasn't an isolated incident. We all tried to be casual, not to be patronizing or jocular. Not too concerned but not callous, either.
the world just is not the same for days after you hear something like that, especially not at night.