It’s 1 a.m. It is always 1 a.m.
There is a fly. I am determined to kill it with my mind.
I’m listening to Bon Iver.
I have a permanent retainer on my bottom front teeth. I think it’s weird that I have cement in my mouth and we’re just supposed to act like that’s okay.
I have eczema and asthma. I do not have allergies. (They are the Unholy Trinity. I lucked out.)
Sheila, the pastry chef at my job, gave me a Chinese ointment to put on my eczema to help clear it up. The tube is completely in Chinese. It could be goat semen for all I know. It burns a bit.
I had asthma for at least 10 years before it was diagnosed. When I tried to be tested for it in high school, my pediatrician told me I was just fat. Her last name meant German in German. Asthma is a nice way to say, “feeling like you’re suffocating in your own chest.” Breathing during an asthma attack feels like trying to carry water with a sieve. I have exercise-induced asthma, which sounds like something a lazy person made up. Albuterol is a deity in my own personal pantheon.
I sometimes wonder how much better a dancer I would have been in school if I’d had an inhaler, instead of the belief that I just wasn’t trying hard enough to breathe.
I also have insomnia and a couple other chronic conditions that I don’t talk about.
My brother’s birthday is coming up. I have feelings about it–but I don’t know what they’re called.
I miss things more than I should.
I don’t just mean Vancouver.
A friend and I spent a few hours today talking about weddings, and while there are certain things that I am dead-set on wanting to have (e.g. outdoor ceremony, specific aisle shape), I really don’t know that I want to be married.
I wish I liked olives.
I want to quit white flour and white sugar. I love animal fats.
I don’t like making plans far in advance.
”The mystery of my missing box prompts a long discussion one night between me, my American friend Maria and her husband, Giulio. Maria thinks that in a civilized society one should be able to rely on such things as the post office delivering one’s mail in a prompt manner, but Guilio begs to differ. He submits that the post office belongs not to man, but to the fates, and that delivery of mail is not something anybody can guarantee. Maria, annoyed, says this is only further evidence of the Protestant-Catholic divide. This divide is best proven, she says, by the fact that Italians- including her own husband- can never make plans for the future, not even a week in advance. If you ask a Protestant from the American Midwest to commit to a dinner date next week, that Protestant, believing she is the captain of her own destiny, will say: ‘Thursday night works fine for me.’ But if you ask a Catholic from Calabria to make the same commitment, he will only shrug, turn his eyes to God, and ask, ‘How can any of us know whether we will be free for dinner next Thursday night, given that everything is in God’s hands and none of us can know our fate?'”
-Eat, Pray, Love
I am Giulio.
I’m a feminist.
I don’t shave my legs.
Those aren’t related. When it comes to my legs, mostly, I forget to do it. Probably because my hair’s not prickly.
If I could have any super power, I’d pick teleportation. Telekinesis would be a close second.
I started writing this to try and make myself sleepy.
I think it worked.
(Even still, I have edited this 5 times to fix spelling mistakes. And I probably will go over it again in the morning.)
**Update** I did not kill it with my mind. I did kill it with a Steve Madden Casual.
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