Dirty Soil
Probably not what you think it is.
Spent the day in Mission Valley.
Chelating, hard up from unintentional fasting. Fantasizing about all the things I’d eat when I was finally free.
A woman came in, chatty and lovely. Shared her Pollo Loco with Millie, in between her meowing.
Should have came prepared for a nap, big sofa couches for me to park my ass on.
I’m ahead on work, and behind a little too. No great disservice, time is what you choose to make it.
Blueberry bagel and a burger is what I settled on. I sat too long overthinking the menu options, I could have picked anything under the sun. But my big brain actually has a lot of food anxiety. I didn’t realize, I hadn’t given myself time and space to listen to it’s complaints.
Can’t have this because XYZ. If I eat ABC I might LMNOP.
Ce la vie. Fuck me.
Thought I put disordered eating to bed a decade ago. Hard to unlearn what you grew up emulating. I look more like my mom than I ever thought possible. I finally understand her obsession with big fat butts.
Millie is always grooming my armpits. It bothered my neighbor once. I don’t have the heart to adminish her for it, just her way of showing she cares about my cleanliness.
We’re stress-testing the system and passing with flying colors. My god, how many years did I waste as a bum?
The amaranth can finally flower without being chewed back to the roots by the deer or the squirrels or the rabbits or Millie. Imagine my surprise when I first discovered her indignity!
What happens if I buy enough food in one go, to have a fully stocked fridge? Enough to feed me through one full week? I’d forgotten a person might make meals that require a recipe, it’s been so long.
Stayed up late launching new art prints. I hope they sell. I hope they make someone smile, or gasp, or rage like hell. It's nice to have hope again when I'd set it aside for a little bit.
