A Creature I Know: Day One Hundred Fifty-Four


I’m a little bit cooked by the sun after my volunteer work slinging beer today.

I’m working on my outline and trying to grasp what exactly everyone else will read into these wild plot points.

Mainlining Law and Order: CI.  All Goren episodes, which is fine, just not my bread and butter.  Mmm, bread.  Damnit.  I should be completely indifferent to the power of bread at this point and I feel like I’d eat cardboard at the moment if you put some sugar on it.

I’m not, I just feel like it!

It’s been a good day, though I don’t know if today’s dicking around the gray frame of this white page is going to reflect that.  I’m hungry and I’m sure it’s because of something I ate and I’m worrying about the diet and my body and my face.  Worry isn’t the right word, I’m just walking the well-trod path of self-criticism.   I washed my hair this morning, no big thing.  Put on some makeup, not noteworthy, really.  Drove myself to work – that does happen on a regular basis.  But what was sort of remarkable was going into the bathroom and taking a look in the mirror and thinking I looked alright.  I thought I looked cute.  Likeable with my hair in a side ponytail and my eyes lively and I felt like smiling, though with teeth it was a bit garish, so just a smile and I pulled out the phone and took a picture.  I didn’t go back and review it, just carried on with my weaksauce weekend working.  Eventually, I ran around a bit frayed as I hurried to get keto-riffic cobb salad from Snarf’s and ate it in my car (as much as I could before my volunteer shift started).  It was so delicious.  I have to tell you, I just could salivate over it right now.   Then, on with three hours of sitting in the hot sun, under an umbrella that apparently was angled so I didn’t get any coverage at all based on the fact that I now look and feel like a lobster.  But there was music (including multiple appearances of a banjo, which me and my pants responded quite well to, and it was an easy job I could do without thought.  So I put on my sunglasses and thought I surely was still looking good.

I look at those photos now and I see age, a big blemish, a still present double chin.  I can’t share that picture, make it my new profile picture on various social media situations, I thought.  They will focus on the imperfect and they’ll figure out what I am…unacceptable, and worse yet, for being earnest, for trying.   To think that anything about myself is worthy of photographing.

And then, in the end, fuck it.  I would really like to opt out of it.  Like the panic, I’d love to just do what I can do in maybe ten times out of a hundred and just think myself out of it. I mean, that’s a lot of bullshit to think about yourself.  So then, I said, I have to post it.






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