Crackalacka: Day Three Hundred Sixty-Five


I am sober.  I am suitably grossed-out by the amount of food I have forced down my throat today. Not against my will, but totally against my spirit.  I am ready to do this shit.  Let’s review.

This year I quit my job.  The job I spent four years  (and 4 more prior to the start of this blog) talking about hating (and loving, but mostly hating.)

This year, I went to Italy by way of Ireland.  And Salida, Minnesota, and Atlanta.  But mostly, let’s face it, Italy. I walked in the Sistine Chapel.  I strolled through Rome and ate gelato.  I rode a train to Florence and ate the most ridiculously delicious pasta.  I ate all the most delicious pasta.  I danced in a night club.  I didn’t completely panic (except for that one time I totally did, but it ended up being okay) I met my amazing friend who was legitimately amazing in person.

This year, my grandmother passed away.  We drove, my parents and sisters and my sister’s boyfriend and the dog in my car + their car, up to rural Minnesota for the funeral.  We’re still, I’m still, sorting out what that means.

This year, I got a new job working with my sister.  Definitely still trying to mentally unpack the impact this has had and will have and what it will encourage me and discourage me from doing.  There’s so many positives – paid health insurance, the fact that I’ve had from Christmas to New Year’s off as a paid holiday, working with rad people.  But I worry that I’m getting baby-fied about driving (even more so) and that I’ve jumped into a universe that has the same problems of the old one, just wearing different clothes.

This year, I held my own writing group.   That needs more attention right now than I am giving it.


So next year (which will be here shortly after I finish this post, I expect), my plans are thus:

Atkins for at least 2 weeks.  At least.  Maybe longer.  Maybe forever.  Maybe I’ll be the jerk to tell you I’ve changed my lifestyle and now I’m one of those people.  Maybe I’ll get so much energy from my new way of eating that I’ll jump through the ceiling and never come back.

No Chipotle.  None.  I couldn’t even finish it today.  My sister even joked to say goodbye to the familiar, but still nameless employees who shovel it to me on the regular without, to their great kindness, too much overt recognition of my addiction.  It is so easy.  It is so massively easy to just apply it to your emotional wounds and cracks and irregularities like a giant blob of cilantro-infused spackle.

No soda.  None.  I love the carbonation and the sweetness, but I hate the way it makes me feel.   It makes me feel like my bones are bending like crazy straws and that maybe, maybe I can see through walls.

Writing a story for myself about Lavellan and Solas IN LOVE (and heartbreak, but MOSTLY LOVE, right?)  A STORY THAT YOU, MEANING YOU, will never read.

That I will get myself a new therapist.

That I will be here, same time, station, channel, firing away, giving it a bit more of my all in both my real life and whatever it is I do on this page.

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