that's up to you this time
I've gotten into this weird habit of creating and consuming a meal, and then, despite its quality, imagining, creating and consuming an entirely different meal. Often this happens a third, and less often a fourth, time. It's a great way to be eating more food (which will help me gain weight, which is a goal again now that my rib is back at 99%. oh shit, i never talked here about my broken rib, did i?) but coming home from work and cooking even more gets tiresome. I wait the twenty minutes for the satiety chemicals to kick in, I make sure to balance my meals so my body isn't missing something the first time around, and I season everything to hell so flavor isn't the problem. I'm doing about 7000 calories a day now, so hopefully something will happen soon.
I just got back into the building. You just can't exercise with a broken rib. Can't do much of anything. You can't cast it, for one thing. You can't rest it either; everytime you try to you find yourself breathing two seconds later. Ribs are much more important to a body's structural support than I realized before the injury; lifting anything is difficult. I got mad props from my much-respected grandfather for not missing a second of work despite such a debilitating injury, but I can't just chalk that up; I suffered for every bit of that. By the way, for anyone curious, yes my grandfather told me "Yo I gotta give mad props on that shit, son! Da's ma word; word is bond playa. Bitch betta had ma money." I was like "Yo Gramps the market's green in the Fruit Belt for some ripe killah" and he was all "I got that shit locked."
For real though, I could compose epic poems about trying to sit up in bed when the alarm goes off, but if I did that I'd probably come off as 'sensitive'.
Life is good though. Life is great! I just got back from vacation. I went up to Toronto.
I still can't figure why when I go up there I have less of me. I drink less to become comfortably drunk. I smoke less to become comfortably high. I continue, of course, I am on vacation, but... My balance is not as strong. My level of confusion seems high to me. My confidence is diminished to where I can't manage facial expressions so well. I don't know if it's merely the travel (no jet lag), if latitude somehow factors in, or if the higher air pollution levels are responsible. Regardless, it all seems to sort itself out by the time I arrive at the bus station to go home. Every time.
When it's time for me to go home, I resume the mantle of the brash American, bullying people in line and making eyes at every cutie despite my ignorance of their destination. I chat the cuties up when I can while I smoke my pre-ride cigarette, then invariably am forced to find a new one as I board. Luckily there's something about my mannerisms that puts people at ease, so if there are no rows clear I'm free to sit with the cutest single chicky, and that makes everyone happy. It's easy to talk and easy to touch.
This time her name was Lisa. She looked to be an even Southeastern Japanese-Native American mix. This makes for dark narrow features and cheekbones to die for. Also beautiful hair. And hands. And lips. She was a graphic designer from Scarborough visiting friends in Queens. Our common interests included: chaos theory, American literature, and megaman games. I'd be a fool to admit I hadn't gotten contact info, and I'm feeling foolish. And her 20 minute layover wasn't going to do anyone any good. But hey, there's one every trip.
I am happy to be back home in the necks of the beautiful girls I know, who missed me, who are glad to see me back. Please do fetch me some beer and don't make me unzip my fly myself.
Thank you dear.
I just got back into the building. You just can't exercise with a broken rib. Can't do much of anything. You can't cast it, for one thing. You can't rest it either; everytime you try to you find yourself breathing two seconds later. Ribs are much more important to a body's structural support than I realized before the injury; lifting anything is difficult. I got mad props from my much-respected grandfather for not missing a second of work despite such a debilitating injury, but I can't just chalk that up; I suffered for every bit of that. By the way, for anyone curious, yes my grandfather told me "Yo I gotta give mad props on that shit, son! Da's ma word; word is bond playa. Bitch betta had ma money." I was like "Yo Gramps the market's green in the Fruit Belt for some ripe killah" and he was all "I got that shit locked."
For real though, I could compose epic poems about trying to sit up in bed when the alarm goes off, but if I did that I'd probably come off as 'sensitive'.
Life is good though. Life is great! I just got back from vacation. I went up to Toronto.
I still can't figure why when I go up there I have less of me. I drink less to become comfortably drunk. I smoke less to become comfortably high. I continue, of course, I am on vacation, but... My balance is not as strong. My level of confusion seems high to me. My confidence is diminished to where I can't manage facial expressions so well. I don't know if it's merely the travel (no jet lag), if latitude somehow factors in, or if the higher air pollution levels are responsible. Regardless, it all seems to sort itself out by the time I arrive at the bus station to go home. Every time.
When it's time for me to go home, I resume the mantle of the brash American, bullying people in line and making eyes at every cutie despite my ignorance of their destination. I chat the cuties up when I can while I smoke my pre-ride cigarette, then invariably am forced to find a new one as I board. Luckily there's something about my mannerisms that puts people at ease, so if there are no rows clear I'm free to sit with the cutest single chicky, and that makes everyone happy. It's easy to talk and easy to touch.
This time her name was Lisa. She looked to be an even Southeastern Japanese-Native American mix. This makes for dark narrow features and cheekbones to die for. Also beautiful hair. And hands. And lips. She was a graphic designer from Scarborough visiting friends in Queens. Our common interests included: chaos theory, American literature, and megaman games. I'd be a fool to admit I hadn't gotten contact info, and I'm feeling foolish. And her 20 minute layover wasn't going to do anyone any good. But hey, there's one every trip.
I am happy to be back home in the necks of the beautiful girls I know, who missed me, who are glad to see me back. Please do fetch me some beer and don't make me unzip my fly myself.
Thank you dear.