Re: Me

getting clear

 It is after midnite.   Sunday morning.  I have a blog that is a stack of paper 2 feet high.   I have a box of documents I’ve written, with lists of things I want to master and do.    And yet I feel like I need to approach the subject yet again, refresh my plan.

I feel healthier, without David blathering into my brain (as much).  My feet are killing me.   I don’t want to lie about being unemployed.   I need to lose my gut.   I’m not sure if I’m still pre-diabetic.  And I hate going on Bart, but really don’t want to get a car, either.  I’m overweight, and my sleep schedule is not consistent.  I don’t do basic oral hygiene, consistently.  I have too much reading on my plate.  I have never achieved the ability to speed-read.  My mind is blank.  I’m paying for 2 news sources that I’m not reading (of late).  And I have no social life.   I’m not trying to meet anyone.  I am suppressing my id.   I like not having any entanglements.  Priests take a vow of chastity, and I’m in my own religion.   Usually people like me have a harem, but I think I’m all I’ll ever need, just me myself and I.   I don’t want to be schizophrenic.  Or maybe I’ve never not been schizophrenic, so I don’t know what I’m talking about, and maybe prefer it after all.  

I don’t use my blender, floss pick, or electric toothbrush.   I rarely use my woojer.  I oversleep all the time.  I watch porn too often.  I don’t care about sports.  I’m basically unemployed.  I ghosted Alexis.  There’s a ghost in my Alexa.  Sara and Pierre haven’t remunerated me for my trip to Portland.  I miss the kid energy of playing with Augie or Ben, Declan and Summer and Esme.   I don’t think my mom is happy.   And I’ve completely dropped Annette off my radar.    

My room activities include spanish, martial arts, humor, philosophy, short stories….  David stole my bible cards.  I woke up with blurred vision one morning, last week.   It really freaked me out.  Is this writing meditation?   Why not, huh.   My pioneering contribution to Buddhism.   Look up Buddhism on Wikipedia, query about it on ChatGPT,  listen to Wikipedia and guided meditations on the Alexa,  sit in silence from time to time, read Buddha books like  Karen Armstrong or Shinzen Young or even SuperBetter.    I have four books on happiness.  I want to travel, to France and Japan.   I find most people annoying.  I think I hate David.  Life is good, but I manage to hypnotize myself into feeling down.  Poor me.  My vision is getting worse.   My achy feet.  I’m worried about diabetes and dental hygiene.  I’m 51 years old.   Of course this shit is happening, right?

I want the Perfect Day.  Wake early.  Eat well.  Read the news (and listen to the briefing).   Write for, and check the stats on, my blog.  Sleep 8 hours.  Go to bed tired.  Exercise and sweat, and stretch.  Read all the trivia, and go down all the rabbit holes.  ET phone home.  Ugh.

Happy!

I have a ton to read, and I’m well educated, already.   My blog is intact (mostly), and available, the way I want it.  Partners always go to shit.  My relationship with myself has the best chance at success.  Solitude suits me.   Paid to exercise.  Making progress toward the body I want.  I have internet, and a music subscription, and a fun hobby (blogging).  I have enough reading to keep me busy for an eternity.   J! archive, all the cards, wikipedia, and actual portable reading devices (books in print on paper !).   I get the NYT daily and weekly Economist on my Kindle.  I live near campus.   Maybe I should go to the GTU to meet people.  The dogs love me.  I have enough money, and I eat well.  I need to cook tasty vegetarian fare, I think.   I’m a meat addict.  

My roommates are idiots.  The lint trap.  The recycle bins.  Keeping the kitchen clean.  The slamming of doors.  Fucking literacy.  It’s getting better, I think.   Or maybe I’m just getting used to it.  Edgar won’t fix the oven.  The dishwasher has never worked.  The oven is used as shelf space.  People are putting shitty toilet paper in baskets, instead of flushing it.  Not everybody can be perfect like me (!).  Nobody’s perfect.  Or maybe we all are, in our perfect imperfections.