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.

Maker’s Breath


My resolution for 2015 is to put all my appositive phrases in commas.  Maybe I’m being serious about that, maybe I’m not.  It would, I feel, make me a better person.

What I am being serious about is Thursday.  Thursday, Thursday, fucking Thursday, the day that will go down in infamy.  Or in flames, take your pick.  I am going to induce this new version of myself on New Year’s Day just like everyone else in the goddamn world of fools fooling themselves.  Today, I’m going with the ultra-realistic point of view.  No optimism.  Just going to fall out of bed, fall onto my exercise bike (probably while playing the video game, fall into a shake, fall into a glass of water, feel good for a few days about all of this until the third day menace strikes and I decide I hate everything and everyone.  And then, if I get past that point, it will start to feel like I’m doing this rather than the old diet hokey-pokey.  Doomed to failure and all that.

There’s this sort of docking procedure that has to happen, depressurization that must occur.  Part of it is happening now – and we have one more day of willful misbehavior on the docket, but even now I’m letting myself build the memory around me of what it’s like to restart all this.  To pull out the posts with the reasons to attempt to lose 20-40 pounds, to pay attention to the angry parts of my body (I have some, and I think lots of people do regardless of their size or health condition), to start planning ahead.  Because already, Friday, the day after (according to the popular song) Thursday, I am going to a coffee shop.  Where the ideal option for someone doing low-carb, I think, on day two of trying to detox, is tea.  And yet, the thought of ordering tea (which is hot, grassy tasting water) is demoralizing.  I will not be getting a fabulous, frothy, five-hundred calorie, whipped cream-laden coffee extravaganza with shots of caramel and possible psychosis brought on my an excess of caffeine and sugar.  And really, if you’re not going to get something like that, when your money is your money and nobody cares about what’s going down your throat, why get anything at all?  Why not just stare at the wall like an asshole with your arms crossed because nothing will ever be pleasurable ever again?

You may wonder how I get through my day if every decision has a circuitous thought stream attached to it that I have to ride until I’m nauseous or distracted, most often by food.  You may wonder.  I often do.

But nevertheless! The things that happened began, ostensibly, or so I’ve been told.  I want my thing to begin.  And so, I will flail with good cheer and much whining, into the new day.

As for the 500 words a day, that will continue.  Until it doesn’t.  I don’t mean to be abrupt about it, I just need the whole machine to start moving at a pace I can run with.

Also, Alistair Theirin MUST BE STOPPED.

The Meek Shall Inherit


It is Monday.  The countdown continues.  The hype is well and truly hyped and I…did not leave the house today.  That was predicated on the fact there was a giant snowstorm and no need whatsoever as I am on paid vacation for the rest of the week.  I do have to figure out tomorrow when I think, unless she cancels, that I am meeting with my cousin/business/life coach at a nearby coffee shop.  (Oh goody, she postponed it until Friday, even better!)

I did start writing my story for me.  I keep thinking about it and not wanting to start and I had a bit of an internal moment today (I have to describe internal moments otherwise I’ll be delineating the grain on my hollow closet doors for you next.)  I felt the way I normally do about a new project – anxious.  And as I told my dear,  surely neurotic self, this is not even a project.  This is you just writing down – for fun! – whatever you want to say about this game you’re enjoying.  I kept wibbling that it wouldn’t be good and people wouldn’t like it and it wouldn’t stretch with perfect grace to wrap its arms around all foreseeable canon outcomes (which at this point is completely impossible given that the canon hasn’t even closed yet and there are all sorts of promises of new content that may or may not eclipse the premise of what I’m attempting to write) and it would be awkward and worst of all boring because I would probably refuse, as I do, to go “there.”  Sorry for the run-on sentence there.

I had to shout at myself: NOBODY IS GOING TO READ THIS.  IT DOES NOT MATTER IF IT IS THE MOST UNREADABLE, UNLOVEABLE, DRAMATICALLY AWFUL PIECE OF DRECK THIS SIDE OF 50 SHADES OF GREY.  Why are you pretending or worrying that somehow someone’s going to get their hands on this rough draft and judge you for it?

Because that is so much easier than the work.  Or so it seems at the outset.  I mean, I have fragments, shards, if you will, of scenes, ideas, moments that I wish existed in canon.  And, because the internet needs me to explain what fanfiction is, that is what fanfiction is.  And I think I want to write fanfiction and I’ve read fanfiction and sometimes, it ends up being good.  So good that people like it and admire them for it and want to be their friends.  And why would I not just keep those story seeds in my head, in their imperfect state, than to try and grow them into something that will come out half-dead and weird-looking?

BECAUSE NO ONE IS GOING TO SEE MY CREEPY AUDREY II.  I’m gonna feed her my own blood and keep her in my own basement and never let her be free and if she’s especially awful, I’m going to put arsenic in her oatmeal and she’ll slip away without causing anyone any trouble.

Anne A. Faze

429949_85212684Enough.  That is my primary concern.  I have three days to get enough and I know that I won’t and I’m trying to calm down about it.  It’s a weird compulsion, completely embarrassing if I had to tell someone face to face, someone I didn’t think was here out with some iota of compassion (a very odd thing to expect on the internet, but somehow, here, I do), but I keep thinking that as I look over at the side table next to the bed where I have essentially been parked for the past three days and see a half-eaten bag of gummy bears, a half a candy bar, a box of fruit snacks half dug into, a bag of popcorn half-eaten on the other side.  There is also a cup full of truffles I have not eaten because I’ve decided I don’t like them.  Too rich (hah!) So maybe that doesn’t count. Let’s be optimistic and say that doesn’t count. That’s today.  And sure, I didn’t have lunch.  But I definitely had pizza for dinner. And oatmeal for breakfast.  It’s crazy!  And it’s 11:00p.m.  and I don’t feel full, I don’t feel anything food related except willing to eat more.  Because after December 31st, the pantry is closed, I will be shut out and have to rely on my frazzled wits alone to be enough.

It’s not true, of course. I’m only planning on doing lower-carb and exercising and just trying to be gentler with myself, but the laissez-faire spirit has gotten the word that I’m cutting off all joy forever and so my cravings are insane. I feel insane.  This also might have something to do with having lost everything – my glasses, my ID (it’s around) and having no necessity to take care of anything.

I never call myself a binge eater, but surely, obviously, inherently, that’s what I am.  It has got to have mostly everything to do with this sense of enough.  With surfeit which is day one, baseline understanding with me.  If you go back four years with of posts, that’s what we were talking about and I was dealing with.  That it doesn’t feel like anything until you hate yourself and want to die amounts of food.  There is no signal to stop except culturally, socially.  I’m keen on that one.    However, eating by yourself means who cares if you eat everything on this table.  Nobody knows to lean in the doorway and ahem and side-eye my emotional eating.  Nobody should have to.

I have to be my own lifeguard.  My own referee.  I’ve got the superglue for the glasses again.  I’ve got a clean-up/suss out plan.  We went to the store and bought whatever is needed for the rest of 2014.  I didn’t eat everything on the table.  So don’t worry about me.  I’m sure you were wringing your hands and clutching your handkerchiefs while gazing out the window into the middle distances.

Days can slip through your fingers like grains of sand.  You think that’s something old people say until eventually you say it too.

Riding the Dragon, Eating Its Tail


Ah, the importance of commas.

I certainly don’t miss work, but I do miss the fact that it does coerce words out of me at a more rapid pace than this current vacation situation where I basically absorb words and images in game form and forget my own.  This place is important.  This shit is critical.  Let’s not forget our grand purpose.

I washed out the refrigerator today.  Like took out the shelves and put them in hot, soapy water and my word, did it need for me to do that.  I am still waiting for my ticker tape parade, but given the fact that most people do these things as a matter of course, I am willing to only cheer and applaud myself for a few brief moments.  There’s still a thousand other things to do.  I  just am encouraged I did one.

One of the pieces of the grand purpose is, aside from avent for my spleen, a place to chronicle weight loss.  And, I suppose, to a lesser degree, weight gain.  That part is less documented, because, let’s face it, it’s less than fun to tell the world (or at least four genuine people) that you preferred a frozen pizza to your future as a svelte goddess.  That you mortgaged one to pay for the other and you, probably, will do it again.  I can never tell if it’s better to try and being uber-positive about it or uber-realistic because while I do fuck up, consistently and have up until this point, the only way I can change is if, going forward, I don’t.  Or at least refuse to stay fucked up if and when I make a bad choice.  I’m always riding that see-saw of self-expression.

All of that goss said, I am getting very keen on the YAY diet point.  I am getting very earnest about it.   I am craving shakes.  I am sick of riding the Dr. Pepper dragon (I specifically told the pizza people not to send it if they didn’t have diet, but they sent it and it was in the house, so I’ve been drinking it as if there’s some kind of imaginary gun to my head and now it’s almost gone and I can remember why there was a moratorium on it in the first place.  It is…poison.

Diets provide direction and focus and I could use some of that now.  Having a few weeks set, at the very least, of healthy food, exercise and water is something I’m beginning to crave. Maybe I’ve said that recently, but the sincerity is at an all time high today.  Which reminds me, I need to get a new battery for my fitbit.  Maybe even a new Fitbit if we’re going with the optimistic path rather than being real (because I will probably lose it, break it or wash it, within a week).  There’s some steps to prepare, grocery stores to hit, spasms to have.  I just have to focus on that, not on goals or numbers or grand purposes, just doing one thing tomorrow.

Casting Flash


I had a great photo of an angry seagull flying overhead picked out for the post, but I accidentally pushed the randomizer button again and now there’s no way to get back to it.  Aside from searching and looking through numerous angry seagull photos to find it and frankly, I’m not entirely sure I don’t have deep-seated fear of birds in general, so we will have to go with what we’ve got.  Maybe we should be glad I decided not to go with the second pick, though, which was some chipped off tree bark.

This kind of looks like the Hinterlands?  If you squint and probably have never seen the Hinterlands up close.  I have seen it from every conceivable angle.  Or I will by the end now.  I’m almost looking forward to demanding a sense of finality of myself once this run is done.   It is nice, also, to just see something that sings of springtime and free open air rather than my current house-bound reality.  So even if the picture is a bit banal, it is working for me.

I made food today.  The snowfall caused that to happen, but it was remarkable how quickly I can recall the joy of cooking when the only other option is putting my snowboots and thin, inappropriate flannel jacket and slogging my way to the car to clear it off for a fifteen minute excursion to fast food.  I know, it isn’t a big deal, but the inconvenience of it did encourage me to dig through the freezer that for whatever reason seems to make everything that comes out of it taste like brussel sprouts (which are not, currently, as far as I can tell, located within the freezer.)  Including and especially the ice.   My food did not taste like brussel sprouts, however.  I had rice and chicken sauteed with garlic and olive oil and finished in the oven and green beans.  It did not interrupt my absence from reality, really, either.  Just a little bit of bother, and it actually was moister, better chicken than I’ve had in forever.  I actually cleaned my plate and have plenty of leftovers for tomorrow – the actual weekend – when logic would dictate that I will desire to eat once again.   I didn’t even use the pots and pans we got yet.  My sister’s been working away on cleaning the pots and pans we do have and I did do one tiny part and load the dishwasher (lest you think your garland of laurels for me has gone to waste) and every little stride feels like we’re re-affirming the right direction.

It makes the ideas of 2015 feel plausible and desirable and not lame pipe dreams we have to put on the boards so no one thinks we’re not planning a personal resurrection along with the rest of the human race come January the First.  Doing it for me versus doing it because I am embarrassed not to be doing it.  Thin but important distinction.  Thin, hah!

Roll on, vacationland!