Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Friday, February 26, 2010

Cotto No No


I was having trouble sleeping last night and decided two slices of cotto salami might do the trick. After eating fresh meat and rabbit chow* for two weeks, processed lunchmeat tasted like a fistful of motherfuck. The sweaty lard glistened. The ligament chunks were like little bulges of old pimple. The peppercorns were soft and soggy. My tongue was coated in semi-rancid meat slime. I imagine tongueing out a fat person's creases would taste that way.

Recently, I loved this stuff. I was buying 12 oz packages (16 slices) for $1.25 a pop. This is the cheap stuff, so I'd have to peel the edge rings, which were plastic, I think. But I'd accomplish that with my teeth and place 4 slices of this stuff between two slices of either seeded rye or pumpernickel, generally accompanied by a processed american slice manufactured by whatever off brand my supermarket pimps out.

I still have more of this shit left. Maybe I'll poison it and give to annoying dogs that bark all night long.

*rabbit chow = produce
**right now? fennel, sweet yellow bell pepper, jicama, spinach, and pea shoots (all raw joy)
3:38 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Excrement Measuring Cup


When I started this blog,...

No. Wait.

When I founded this institution, I wrote in it like a diary for the the first year. After I started experimenting with fiction and memoir, I got a bit self-important (founded! institution!) and stopped writing simply to gratify myself. I implemented quality control. I took into consideration my (mostly imaginary) audience. After a couple years of hot and heavy writing, I lost steam, became overly critical of my output, and finally trickled to a near halt. (trickled to a near halt? Jesus that's awful)

No more. If I am to resume frequent writing, I must pick and peck away with nary a whit of self-consciousness; no consideration given to any litmus of quality. In fact, this garbage likely won't be very entertaining. It's my blog, and I can ramble on about mundane nonsense all day long if it pleases me. Call this Operation Plummeting Standards.

It's just a damn diary, who cares if I don't lock it and hide it under my bed like every other self-respecting 4th grade girl?


So. Writing stuff down. Not like riding a bicycle. Forgetting happens. Style, grace, eloquence, depth? Eh. Linear? Pshaw.

Nope. Just grocery lists and workout stats here. Maybe even some bitching about everyday annoyances. I'm like your mother in law, except with a penis and fewer menopause references.

On January 9th I quit smoking cigarettes. It was a Saturday. I had a Marlboro Medium at 11am. It tasted like dry rape. I was recovering from a pre-pneumonia upper respiratory infection, throughout the course of which I was my usual chimney-like self. I put that cigarette out and thought, "I guess that's enough."

Unlike previous attempts, there was no momentous decision. There was no quit day, or last pack, or planning of any sort. I just went cold turkey late one morning, casually.

As a result, my infrequent pot smoking ceased. I can't smoke a bowl without a post-bowl cigarette. I can now pass a drug test with confidence for the first time in over a decade. (never taken one, never needed to) I drink infrequently. The two times since I quit that I've gotten good and loaded, both times I smoked a cigarette(s), and as a result, felt like shit and had trouble breathing for two days afterwards. I'm glad that I didn't use those few drunk cigarettes as an excuse to cancel my quitting, like I would've in the past. I just went right back to not smoking.

I'm not good a moderating my alcohol intake, anyways, and I haven't really enjoyed being drunk since I stopped using cocaine and ephedrine, so I'm thinking of quitting alcohol altogether. No concrete pledge right now.

So I'm a clean person these days. I never envisioned this version of myself. It's strange. I've decided I like it. I feel fantastic.

I knew I'd eat more. I gave myself a week to eat whatever I could could shove in my greasy face. The next couple weeks, I transitioned from candy bars to oranges as my primary snack. Soon, carrots and celery replaced pizza and gyros as my afternoon repast. I stopped buying ice cream and soda pop altogether. Research ensued.

I listened to some Michael Pollan lectures on youtube. "Eat real food. Not too much. Mostly plants." I stopped patronizing fast food places and began spending time in the produce section. I stopped shopping the aisles and stuck to the periphery of the grocery store. Meat, dairy, produce. No processed, refined, man-made pseudo-food. Goodbye Little Debbie, you whore. Fuck off, Chef Boyardee. I discovered that I love things like persimmon, tindora, jicama, daikon, and edamame. I also learned to avoid parsnips and turnips.

Now I'm a pro at steaming brussels sprouts for exactly 7:15. I know I like asparagus with plain butter, not hollandaise sauce. My mom gave me a crock pot, and I use it at least once a week to prepare curried vegetables or chili for consumption at work. I've become a big fan of tupperware containers. I've put myself on a 90% paleolithic diet, so no bread, pasta, refined sugars, starches, or grains, but all the bacon and corned beef I can stand. Eggs too.

I read fitness blogs for new and interesting bodyweight workouts. I bought a nice 3'x8' exercise mat, an 8 lb. medicine ball, some 15 lb. dumbbells, and a jump rope. I spend about 5-10 intense minutes a day with them, which is enough to make me sore. I'll step it up as my body adjusts. (I've been a lazy shit for a long time, so my body can't take much before my knees and shoulder threaten to sever, and my lungs are still very confused and angry.)

I feel pretty damn good. My life is less about what I'm not doing (smoking) and more about what I am. (practicing healthy activity) Give me a few months and you may see me as a testimonial on a late night infomercial.

Oh, and my bowel movements are legendary.
5:11 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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