Note For Rent

On

I make coffee the way Faust would have drank it, somewhat reminiscent of pitch, and capable of caffeinating an ungirded sentient into another plane of existence -- which is just as it should be, far as I'm concerned.

I had a couple of cups as I was getting ready for a late-night booking, as I was flagging, and less than my normal, scintillating self. Job went off without a hitch, but now it's Three AM. I have read two short stories, a magazine article, and have gone back to a novel I left off a few months ago; still, no exhaustion... not even a droopy lid.

I've done this to myself. Oh, tempting demon; all my choices have been my own.

Pudding Proof

I have discovered that it doesn't matter if you're with your family, or apart from them, the fact remains: if you take the time to celebrate the holiday and you can feel your physical form degenerate towards that oh-so-attractive potato-form which lurks in the wings for all men. Hopefully older men, but as I look around, I think that just about anyone can achieve it if they put their mind to it, and fasten themselves to the lip of the pastry tray.

This year I've substituted "food" for "alcohol"; a system of yuletide revelry I had given a go in my first year of University, but gave up as being impractical, as few others in my family drink fequently, and even fewer to excess -- I would end up in a semi-incoversable state, sitting in a corner and trying not to appear intoxicated. This year, as we loitered about in the variety of locals that would have us (the last of which ended up being my flat), none of which offered food, I decided to brush the dust off my half-hearted attempt to be the ruddy-nosed reindeer of the bunch. In the end, I don't think my nose was much redder than anyone else's; but I did manage to wake up next so someone (cute) the next day without any pants, so at least one of my resolutions came to pass.

Although certain that I haven't reached a danger-zone quite yet, I am slovenly aware that I haven't seen the inside of the gym (though I did walk past it today, latte in hand) since mid-last week, and that I'm somehow almost hard-wired to ignore health or dietary concerns so soon as anyone wears a Santa hat within a 200 foot radius. I ordered pasta with a cream sauce yesterday, for God's sake -- cream sauce!

Ugh. While I sit down, and attempt to avoid the distinctly weighty feeling that I've obsessed into my gut, I think I'll do my best to snuggle in and watch an entire season of some new DVD released television... and go over my new gym routine... maybe with a box of cookies.

When I Want It

It's my day off, and I have a parched, pasty-tongue craving for the slake of ginger beer; but I've sworn off confectionery fizzy drinks again, as I figure that I've overused my "relocating your life is hard enough without denying yourself ubiquitous pleasures" excuse, which I've been using to justify all manner of things which are not helping my fitness, or my figure, progress, probably by about two weeks.

Fuck.

The Only Thing

Worse than getting in my way, is wasting my time when I haven’t brought something to read. Waiting an hour for a photographer who doesn’t show, or answer his phone, falls into this category. Foolishly thinking that the errand would be a quick one, I was mired in the irksome purgatory of the Gay-Kitchen, as the boyfriend of the absent paparazzo fiddled with the little dog, and I was subjected to broad hints, being dropped by one of the Boys, of his own impending career in glossy print; where, presumably, he would be subjected to the ministrations of more punctual shutterbug.

It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do with my time.

That, coupled with payroll issues courtesy of the Stupid Job, has filled this day with half-starts and un-accomplishments.

Bah! I say. When do I get to the naked suction leading to release? The release foremost in my mind being from this relative poverty, that which makes it impossible to live my life as a real person.

There’s an irony here.…

But you get over the hurdles, figure out you can handle the bloody thing, then just want to get on with it; and in the meantime, the Stupid Job, continues to be stupid; and not even pay on time.

What’s left to do?

I know! Let’s make a bushel of pomodoro sacchetti, drink a bottle of Coonawarra Shiraz and watch disturbingly funny cartoons on the Internet.