Whiplash

i should probably look for more comics on Married to the Sea. but i'm not going to right now.

i'm going to look through my iTunes playlist, and play every sad song that might cause me to edge closer to crying.

its just that kind of a night.

buying underwear is just such a fucking rip off... you can buy the sweetest, most awesome boxer-briefs in existence, and they never satisfy, because all you really want is to look like the casually ripped eighteen year old german model who's sporting those trunks (in a small) on the box. you want to put on those stupid cotton/lycra junk buckets, and inhabit his body, his chest, his ribs just visible under his tawny skin. you want his toned stomach; not aggressively cut, just smoothly muscled, like he's saying in your head, "no, i don't have to work too hard on my abs. they're just like that naturally." and you want to kill him just as much as you want to fuck him. you want his ass, cheekily (har har) flexed, contraposto; and you want his cock, the head just visible below the embroidered codpiece.

the gender gap is slowly being erased. men are now just as unhappy with their bodies as women. i'm not sure if anyone really wanted it to even out like this, but if you're selling something, ANYTHING, you come out a winner.

yet another reason capitalism sucks.

so much jealousy. so much self-loathing. i've been working out a lot for the past three months. and the results are pretty impressive. i'm not underwear box material, but i'm a long, long way from where i was when i started. which is good. i'm happy with myself. i still work myself too hard, and feel really odd if i skip a day, but generally speaking, my exercise regimen makes me feel healthy and well.

except for the fact that i'm sick. best guess: sinus infection. no, it hasn't gone away. i hate antibiotics, but i'll go to my doctor tuesday night, and he'll prescribe them, and i'll take them. gladly. because i hate feeling this way. i hate the malaise. i hate the lethargy. i hate my head being a fog specially imported from london. i hate my stomach gurgling and asking questions i don't have answers to. i hate the physical weakness, the inability to get through a circumscribed workout at the gym, and the inability to fully open my back during yoga.

my body has been good to me. i was born with a club foot, and thanks to fancy surgery while i was an infant, i have two legs that are almost the exact same length, and that are able to carry me around just fine, thank you very much. i have diabetes, but it didn't make itself known until i was in high-school; well old enough to take care of myself. and the technology always improves. i'm doing all right there. i needed surgery to fix a flap of loose cartilage in my right knee, but since then, the knee has been in good shape, and so long as i take care with it when it feels a little loose, all is well.

i take my body entirely too much for granted.

despite its flaws, it functions fully and well. it responds well to exercise. it rises to just about every challenge i've thrown at it.

but when i'm sick, it's like i'm suddenly a houseguest in my own physical vessel. my brain won't fire right. or at least, not quickly. my limbs are heavy and slow. i smell different. am i the only one who notices that? when you're sick, or at least when i'm sick, my urine, my stool, everything about me, my skin and hair, it all smells different. it smells wrong.

i can be as busy as i want, have as many things to do as i can possibly schedule, but when physical basics assert themselves, none of it matters.

i already mentally feel like a waste of organic matter. now i can't even make use of my body, which was my main tether to feeling like a human at all.

and i'm bitching far too much, i know. and a large part of this, is the same old frustration of my situation.

because i feel pregnant. now that i'm laid low, splattered over the house like roadkill, i'm suddenly so full of things i want to do. things i want to produce. i suddenly see what i should be doing, paths i should be pursuing, projects i should be working on. fuckin' A!

so i think, i'll try to write them all down, so i have a list. so that when i can pull myself together, and get my innards back inside the envelope of my skin, i know what i'm supposed to do.

i'm supposed to create.

by god, i'm supposed to create.