Hardcore Gamer

one handed blogging is damn hard and not without a lot of backtracking. not to mention, the entailed innuendo.

Okay, okay, if I want to get this done and I do, I need to apply both hands and also my brain directly to the keyboard.

I am having one of those fasts where you only realize you’ve been fasting when you look at the computer screen with your eyeballs all bugging out and burning like you’ve been hit with a spritz of Satan’s Jock Itch and it’s 8:00pm and you’ve only had some peanuts and bread with butter all day.  Oh, and the leftover Chipotle from yesterday was your breakfast.   You haven’t eaten meals so it sort of qualifies as a fast and if you’re fasting then you don’t need to feel dumb about not running out to get something shitty to eat from a restaurant that’s going to sit on your gut and make you feel like an idiot for paying for the service.  So we’re fasting.

This is not necessarily the Sunday evening I would like to have or even planned to have.  When are my days the days I’d like to have?  Rarely, as I’m sure most people find, but at least in this case, I’m alright with it.  I’m fine with not really achieving the moon and having a perfect place to crash and find clarity.  Why?  Because I know I did do something.  I did make efforts today.  I didn’t overwhelm myself with THIS IS THE WEEKEND NOW YOU MUST METAMORPHOSE INTO SOME MIRACULOUS CREATURE OF LIGHT AND ACTION.   This is a thought I often have and I have to look at myself in the mirror when I wash my face on Sunday nights and realize that life is relatively what it is was when I woke up.   This deflation can deflate my whole spirit, my whole desire for change and purpose.  It can make me feel like the only thing that is possible is a repetition of the day before and hope is for cute vloggers who live in LA and who do not have to escape the belly of a whale to just get on the same footing as the rest of the world.  Not being perfect can be the rake that you circle around, stepping on the prongs and smacking yourself in the face every time.  Not being perfect and not recognizing that on a soul level can drive you nuts.

Today, I did play a lot of video games.  Like a lot.  But I also wiped down the counters in the bathroom like I planned, I also threw out a whole bunch of things, I put on the pedometer and pranced about until I realized it wasn’t working and then I shook the battery loose and fixed it and pranced about again, I am having a cup of water.

My face is hurting and I’m having a small hypochondriacal episode where I’m pretty sure a tiny orange worm has crawled into my eardrum and is causing the whole left side of my head to ache, but this is still a day where I didn’t die so A++ for me.


I think I should try and read yesterday’s post before writing the one for the day.  Alas, sometimes, I’m more about the outcome than the process.  So tonight, I’m eyeing the word count number very closely.

September 1st – I’m scraping up the madness and putty and trying to clean my body up.  Kind of getting excited.  I’m buying a cookbook.

Going to Chicago in October (it’s just odd circumstances that make it always Chicago, really, not some super love of the city, though to be quite honest and rather skeevy sounding, for all the time I’ve spent in Chicago, I haven’t seen much of it) and I’m finally taking a second to look up flights.  I’ve gotta talk to my friends and see if I can fly into Midway versus O’Hare.  I’ve never been to Midway, but it’s going to be cheaper and I can fly Frontier which I always prefer to do if I can.  Service is better, it’s supporting the local (if giant) guy, there’s the cute animals on the planes, and US Airways was pretty much a sardine can strapped to a bottle rocket.  No, that’s hyperbole, but I really dread being stuck on a runway next to some fucking self-righteous, potentially incestuous mother-son unit for an hour and a half with no word as to when or if we’ll ever take off again.  Still hyperbole, but you get the point.

So, if we survive, and if we change and adapt and become the strong, cool, lovely people that everyone else believes we are and sometimes we pretend ourselves into believing we are, that’ll happen mid-October.  That’s going to be a busy time, too, though with the grandparents coming and potentially my Minnesota aunt and my half-sister and her kids and we’ll have the Chili Cook-Off and other events.  But it’ll also be fall, deep into fall, and as scary as the onset of winter is – even as summer still gads about, all tulle and naivete – there’s something comforting about knowing that the rapacious speed with which we work will slow.  That nature herself will pull back the reins and make us stop planning every minute of every hour of every day.

I wrote a poem back in high school about an abandoned house called “Fallow” – and if I had it in digital form, I’d post it here now, but unfortunately, only an ironically yellowing stapled set of papers bears it now and I don’t have those either.  There might be a lesson in that, too.  Anyway, this poem is about this shell of a house that sits, uninhabited in a rural landscape where city and suburbia are encroaching.  There’s an aspect of it that speaks to the aesthetics of just letting something turn, in its own time, into dust, into something new.  To give up control and let the forces of erosion, oxidation, entropy, play their parts so that we can clear the space for new life, new vision, new hope.   A low tide sometimes means the sea is pulling back its muscle, priming itself to surge.

In some areas of my life, I need to let things go fallow.  My ironclad, blood bond with work, for one?  In others, the land is fertile and rich and sees signs of spring even in the yellowing leaves.

I broke a rule with this picture, do you know what it is?

Big Comfy Couch

There is no time for me to be here, but there’s no time later, so here we are.  The onset of crazy has begun.  No more incubation period.  Just flat-out, balls to the wall, crazy, mother’ucking crazy.

I have been racing, maniacally, through the day.   It’s almost 4:30pm and I’m at work, contemplating how early I need to be up go come in by 7:00am tomorrow so that I can some how manage the madness.  That’s really what my job description is: madness manager.

This is only eighty four words.  I’m multi-tasking rather demonically right now so I figure I can spend a minute or two on here talking about me being hungry and tired and…

I couldn’t spend even a minute so now I’m trying to write this entry from home while working on watching True Blood.   Sister is off to the new job and I hope it’s not too difficult a schedule and that she meets new people and doesn’t immediately kill them/get killed by them.   I’m considering dinner and the fact that I need some and have absolutely no idea where to go for it once we’re done watching the show.

Okay.  So I’m here at home, all by my lonesome.  Trying to think and use this space for what it is intended and not just a challenge to spew nonsense everyday.  This blog was always about changing myself.  Why did I want to change?  A lot of it was my feeling that my life as I was living it was socially inadequate, incorrect, regressive, bad.   I didn’t think that anyone could find me remotely beautiful enough to date, though I didn’t think that anyone found me repulsive.  I existed.  I was factual.  Present.  No more, no less.  This year has been about proving those self-thoughts and that mindset wrong.  Altering my worldview by making my body one I felt was beautiful.  Worthy of attention and focus and of projecting confidence through.  That was the change I set out to achieve, though I don’t know if I was ever that specific.

Now it’s the middle of August.  It’s Fine Arts Festival season and my job seems to have overshadowed all else.  My energy and focus and attention don’t seem to be able to escape the black hole that is work.  My being seen or appreciated or wanted, I barely have a moment to concern myself with because I’m needed.  I’m tasked.  I am doing.  Pulling back to talk about loneliness and humanity and self-esteem and anger and regret seems extravagant and luxurious.  Or the kind of talk that will pull me under.  Make me want to quit.

Right now, sitting in the dark living room, alongside an empty Wendy’s bag, I wonder about how I am ever going to make this change.  I wonder about what I can possibly do if this is the way things are for me.  50+ hour weeks, emotionally draining work, no real positive reinforcement beyond the nagging voice inside my head that tells me I’m getting fatter and it’d be nice to not be fatter.

This is negative talk.  This is the unprettiness.  I have this event coming.  The big one of the year for me administraively.  I’m trying to dive into the wave instead of having it pull me under.  I’m trying to acknowledge that maybe underneath all the HAVE TO’s, all the white rabbit looking at his watch talk, there is room to try and do something better for myself and it comes down to me choosing not to do it.

It comes down to me causing all this psychic noise because I don’t want to disappear into my work.  I don’t want to just be subsumed by the office I hold and hurrying to eat my vegetables and drink my water and hurry to get my eight hours sleep.   I want to be known as a writer, as a friend, as a good person who has fun and lives a vivid and recklessly passionate life.  Sometimes it feels like eating badly is the only risk I’ll let myself take anymore.  Anymore?  Ever?  I think I’m struggling because I don’t want to let go of my finger’s hold on my real reality.  And that makes me happy to remember because then I can re-remember that working on myself, giving myself what I need as far as nourishment and faith and time and love, THAT IS WHO I AM.  That this self-evolution, blogged and otherwise is part of my vivid and passionate life, the malaise and the doldrums and the promises made and broken is all the locomotion of my existence.  I will always hunger and fight and sing and slip and being here or there on the pathless journey makes no nevermind.  Movement is all the universe provides for.  The rest is up to us.

Mr. Gatsby Gives the Green Light

The doing of things which need doing has never been a strong suit of mine.  It has always seemed to me that when you push things to the side, more often than not, you can make a new path for yourself and the things that were put aside actually are fine being there.

But, that’s not always the case.

Tomorrow is Monday.  The official, branded, national Day of Getting Things Which Need Doing Done.  It’s why we all dread it.  Whatever it is, once Monday comes to a close, we’ll be at a resolution with something or at least a foot deeper into the shit we wanted to handle by 9:00am.

But you can do something to help the Monday Horror.  You can make Sunday a good day and let Sunday help out Monday.  Vent some of the pressure by doing a little pre-planning.  That’s the idea, anyway.  And today is sort of ending up working out.  We’ve gotten some cleaning done and it eases my fevered brain not to keep my eyes constantly scanning for the huge overhaul that always needs doing and never gets done on account of its unbelievable hugeness.   The cabinets have fixtures, or at least most of the do.  I took out the trash.  I have room to walk in my room, I’m doing this entry, there’s only one person still mad at me…things are okay in that regard.

Tonight, I’m going to pick out clothes for tomorrow, thank you, Mr. Gatsby and I’m going to get something figured out for food.  It’s True Blood Day tomorrow so a certain percentage of time will be devoted to that, but afterwards, there may just be time for a little in-home walking with everyone’s favorite muted exercise expert…good old What’s-her-name?  Debbie?  Sandy?   Leslie!  That’s it.  Me and Leslie Sansone may just hit the shag tomorrow.  Ahem.  No promises, but right now, it sounds fairly decent.  Get a little blood in my legs.

And somehow, I think, I’ll call my mother between here and there and then and now.  This is probably the biggest mountain made out of the smallest molehill and I can see that it could easily turn into some kind of world war because neither of us will give up.  So the Solomon of my conscience asks me why I’m doing this, and if I’d be the one to cut the boy in half just to be half-right.  You know the story.   I know my feelings were hurt, but I’m okay now, more or less.   I don’t know how to express it right, how the series of events happened not unlike a retelling of Thirteen Days and all of a sudden we go from me being angry at my sister for treating me like an alternating piggy bank and punching bag and how she had and has absolutely nothing to say on the matter and me trying to handle that issue by sitting quietly and getting engrossed in my book (A Clash of Kings – tell me you can’t read that for three hours without saying a word to anyone) – how we go from that – to, me hurting her feelings and treating her horribly.

How do we make the leap?  We just do.  It’s a family and it just does the stupid shit it does out of its own amorphous sense of reason.

I’ve been reading the past two hundred entries lately and I don’t want to carry pettiness around.  I’m going to be petty and do stupid things, but frankly, I don’t have this kind of time to waste on what this time next year will be nothing but a notation in this process, a blip.

My life is about more than blips.  It’s about being responsible and doing things which need doing…even on a Monday.

The Ocean Refuses No River

Okay, I had this great concept when I rolled out of bed this morning about doing sort of tweet-style blogging where I kind of track the whole day chronologically with how I’m doing on this whole day one business.  But, eh, didn’t happen.  I played a lot of Dragon Age, I cleaned 25% of my room, I dicked around on the internet since Supernatural was at Comic-Con.  However, I did, earnestly and whole-heartedly start the diet.  Again.  Eventually.

My pilot light has been lit.

It’s now ten-thirty, and I’m running a bath (hopefully a quick one so I don’t burn the last stub of today’s candle in one brief go) and I’m feeling sort of amazed and ready and weird.  It’s this Aquarius full moon, I swear.

So, I had better go mind the bathwater.  Will be back for a very interesting treatise on habit and inertia.

Or  maybe not, and maybe that will have to suffice for a treatise.  Read in the tub another chapter or so of A Clash of Kings and loved it.

Basically, I started today and while I finished the pizza for breakfast, I got myself there.  I have to build  this and I will build this.  By this evening, I’d had a couple meals under my belt, gone to the store and despite the most ridiculous internal tantrum that I’ve ever been privy to, got actual healthy food that I will eat.  So I don’t find a huge amount to complain about.  It is just finding a line you can hold and holding it and this morning, I weighed myself and was a bit baffled.  150.5.  I was sure with all the bologna I’ve been eating (metaphoric bologna), that I’d have to have swung back up to that old standby 154, at least.  AT LEAST!

So I don’t trust the scale, but I think scale-hopping is a recipe for self-sabotage and self-hatred.  I may be off, but I’m off the same way every time.  The weight is was it is –  a number, a mark to go by.  I know how yesterday and into this morning felt.  I know it every well.  I knew it the day before I started this project and I’m sure I’ll know it again.  The thing is this, I’m getting back up.  I’m facing facts that I’m going away from what I want.  I’m going back to the safety and security of the messy house that no one can visit, the messy personality that no one can unwind and detangle, the language meant to completely obscure meaning, feeling like a ghost in my own life.

I was just getting grounded, I was just getting good.  Then the fear set in and the vacation became an excuse and I let myself not want it so deeply.  I gave up mantras and the laser focus became diffuse.

It is bigger than one meal or one failure or one message on OKCupid.

I have to acknowledge deeply and truthfully and in the mirror, eyeball to eyeball that nothing is going to happen unless I take the reins and make it happen or, really, just allow it to happen.


In the Shadow of the Mountain

The thing about comfort food is that it can actually comfort you.  We don’t just say that because it tastes good and we want to excuse ourselves.  Food, “bad food”  has biological properties that can soothe and distract the brain from issues at hand.  It can, for a time, mask pain and ease sorrow. It can dim the light on what really bothers you and make things seem in balance, sorted, on pause at least.

It isn’t the method we should use when we’re hurting because with that magical, ephemeral panacea comes a lot of lingering side-effects, both large and small.  It creates an addiction to that sense of being soothed and cossetted and not being directly in the face of our own pain.  Like any other drug, it isn’t the method we should use when we’re of sound mind and good faith. We can make it through these situations.   We can.

It isn’t the method we should use.  But we use it because it works.

A friend of mine had a horrible accident this weekend.  We don’t know a lot of things, but it seems like he’s in pretty precarious straits.  That the options for his survival all come with caveats and price tags, and yet any of those options are not promised to be available when needed.   He’s a year younger than me.  It’s a life half-lived.  It’s sad.  It’s beyond sad.   We’re not allowed to see him at the hospital.  We’re just here in our limbo waiting for some kind of answer, knowing that it’s not going to be a good one, whatever it is.  That we even found out at all seems to have been a random happenstance.  It’s not solvable or fixable or final and it makes me feel beyond useless.  I’m a bit beyond myself, in truth.

I’m at work, and writing this entry now is a luxury I don’t usually indulge in, but right now, I need a little catharsis.

I know better than to fix this via food.  But I really kinda need to fix this, and sitting here, at this desk – I don’t feel able to cry.  I feel like someone is pressing a thumb into my forehead.   People have been coming in and it’s become my duty to tell everyone the news despite not knowing what I should say or what the facts actually are.  I mean, I didn’t know him SO well.  We weren’t best friends, we were sort of …friquaintances.  Though, he was – is – deeply loved by those in our organization and I respect and admired and looked forward to seeing him.  Probably – definitely had one of those amorphous crushes that you never do anything about, you just acknowledge inwardly.  I just, whether it’s at the right level for how we knew one another, I care.  Whether I’m the only person or the 9,000th person who cares, I care.  Besides which,  this isn’t remotely about me.

Makes my feelings and my methods of dealing both irrelevant and a parody of themselves.

Still, what else do we have but to:


Faux Pas

I am officially not giving a damn for the next 48 hours.

I need to think.  I need to clear my head and the decks and do a few things right while the sky opens up and proffers up its short-term blanket reckoning.

The night is just not matching the day.  My good intentions seem to just get fucked up when I’m stressed and bent and not able to deal with everything that’s getting chucked at my face and food is what I’m running to.  I think there are reverberating effects from things that I’ve dismissed as being emotionally inert.  I am playing games trying to numb myself to the fact that I’m not good enough, my house is a mess, only jerk-offs want to date me and if they’re not a jerk-off, they end up as one, and everything feels hormonal and out of whack and chaotic.

Not chaotic in a good way.   It feels like a greasy, grimy bad habit getting the best of me.  I feel like everyone’s got the one up on me, everyone’s got the upper hand and if not, they have the upper hand in their own lives and meanwhile, in this extended and shitty metaphor, I get the shaft.

Kind of sick of it, really.  Working so hard and feeling like I’m falling behind.

BUT.  If I do actually take this moment to think about it – I could realize a few obvious things.

My manic, scared, overwhelmed feelings are at their peak when accompanied by a diet of starches and sugars and fats.  When I break down and let my diet go waywardly, I reinforce it by feeling like I can’t get off the  merry-go-round.   When I take steps to control my eating, when I have water, veggies, excise carbs where possible, I feel infinitely less static in my head.  I don’t have the nagging guilt about wasted money and time.  It’s better.

Didn’t go to the gym under the guise of working here on projects.  Instead, in the bed, laptop on my lap, glazed over.

There seriously has to be another option here.  Right?   I’m stressed, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want a good, fulfilling life.  It doesn’t mean that I want to be a jerk-off to myself.  I would really like to be back on my way.

So.  Back on my way we go.  I have an idea.  It goes along with the Secret Knicker Project to keep rebuilding me when I have this ludicrous and insubstantial doubts.  I need to publish some writing.  I have a place I want to submit to.  I have a deadline.  I have help.  It is up to me to put in the effort.  Yes, I do have a role to play in all of this.


Packing gym bag for after work.
Have shake for breakfast, have greek salad with chicken for lunch, my chicken and veggies for dinner.
Do 30 minutes at the gym.  Work hard.  Give it my all.

I tried not to care.  I didn’t even make it half an hour.  I want this.  My fingers, my scalp, my achingly void self wants to form itself.  Wants more than to be dumped and left for a gummy bear life.  5 flavors and a sick belly. Being upright, carrying on, trying despite not knowing where it will lead or if will lead to anything, these are the acts of a wunderkind.  These are the acts of someone who can’t fail.

To those who have commented, thank you.  I continue to continue and I hope you do, too.