That Gorgeous Fall Coat

I’m not sure how I feel about this year’s impending autumn.

Let’s make up a list of pros and cons.

Pros:

I will no longer be sweating through my shower and antiperspirant within the hour.
My fall coat is gorgeous.
My fall coat is gorgeous. Yes, it’s that great.
Ooh, tights!
Maybe I’ll be able to find some awesome boots.
Providing I can finance it responsibly, I could make an excuse to buy a bunch of new fall clothing. Yeah . . .

Cons:

My hydro bills suck ass.
My winter wardrobe, aside from my new lovely cardigans, is sorely lacking.
I sell no clothing, therefore I am less rich than I am in the summer.
All the handsome men disappear inside. Chickens.
Social life sometimes, not always, but sometimes, takes a hit for the worse.
Walking is somewhat less enjoyable, come November.
The cold rain that’s gonna fall. You know it’s gonna fall, that cold rain. It’s gonna fall.

Hmm. This isn’t much of a list. I guess I’ve gotten used to the four seasons of Canada after living here for thirty years.

Nevermind.

Go back to what you were doing, Ma Nature, I have no significant input.

Yes, I’m Going to Sit in an Inch of Water!

Fucking hell, what is wrong with my head?

I can’t get any work done, all I want to do is sleep. Everything feels like it’s beyond my control.

I can’t even stop eating. I’ve gained a million pounds, even though my scales say that I’ve gained nothing. I feel so fat and undisciplined.

And the loneliness. Christ on a pogostick. Where did all my friends go? Even the real ones have stopped calling me. I had initially chosen to go into a semi secluded state, temporarily, just to deal with certain events that were taking place. Getting used to my new work environment and distancing myself from certain undesirables. Now I’ve just added my newly forced seclusion to my list of uncontrollables.

Nothing will ever change?

I had really hoped to not fall into this self pity trap. It’s fucking useless.

And illogical. I know that this phase is transient, but I certainly don’t feel the truth behind it.

So I’ve been crying, and now I’m going to take a bath in a dirty tub, and maybe cry some more. Definitely, I will experience my personal meme that involves that Golden Girls conversation between Sophia and Blanche.

Don’t ask. It’s retarded.

Life Changes, Head Gets Messy

Intellect is out to lunch with its afternoon meetings cancelled.

Rather than a clean and empty space, I am housing a tangled knot of immovable thoughts inside my head. Medusa’s hair has turned on itself and the snakes have become stone.

It feels like constipation. Stimulus goes in, information is absorbed, yet nothing comes out.

How do I change this?

Where does one purchase a mental laxative?

And all this time, I have been staying away from people. I guess there isn’t that much stimulus after all. I have been preferring my own company to that of others, yet I still fight against it. I try to go out, I plan on attending certain events, I even get the lipstick on my mouth, but then I stay home.

Is it comfort? Sloth? Boredom? Is it even a choice?

On Nihilism

Tomorrow is my last day working at a place upon which I’ve spent too much hate.

I really wanted it to be my last waitressing job. No dice. Once I realized that there were no dice to be had, I tried hard to escape. Once again, no dice.

This change of scenery was brought to me by the letters X and D. It worked well enough in my favour eventually, but I have to wonder why I held on for so long, only to end it so easily and anticlimactically.

O Life, you tease me with bullshit.

What is the point of anything?

Oh, I get it. Funny!

No Host to Fall Beneath

Uh oh.

Chocolate martini + Leonard Cohen + boredom + loneliness = Bad Combination.

Death of a Ladies Man. I have bittersweet memories of this album, laced with chocolate martinis and the briefest of romances.

But that was then, and then was a million years ago.

As for now:

Isolation has once again reared its ugly head. And there is no money to spend. The art comes slowly and without inspiration. My social skills have stagnated.

Not even a drunken make out session since June. Dry July. August of Damnation.

A September to Remember?

Not in the cards, I’m thinking.

I Like to Spread it Around

If I were a responsible person, I wouldn’t have had to make lemonade out of bottled lemon juice, melted sugar and warm water today.

Gross.

I would have bought groceries at some point this week, more than just Wednesday’s grapes and cheese expedition anyway, and I would have had some sort of hangover beverage readily available this morning.

Of course, if I were a responsible person, I would have stayed home last night and made progress on my dresses, rather than going for cheap beer and disappointment, thus negating the need for some sort of hangover beverage this morning.

At least I’m well rounded in my irresponsibility.

I Suppose it Could Just Be a Mindless Vacuum

Sometimes, not always, and not tonight, I get wooed by the words and voice of Leonard Cohen.

Once in awhile, I hear him moan about how he wants me he wants me he wants me, and how my fingerprints get left in the most unusual places, and that I’m one of the ten pretty women in Vienna, and I love his breath on my neck.

It’s hot and it tickles nicely. Sort of, anyway. I can’t imagine it past the knowledge that he, for some ridiculous reason, prefers blondes.

Who likes blondes nowadays?

Oh sure, they were an evolutionary upgrade, a sexy anomaly, way back in the caveman days. Survival of the fittest and all, right? But really, I’ve never been attracted to blond men, nor have I seen the allure of a fair haired lady.

. . .

So, I’m currently experiencing a dry spell. Popular opinion states that it is a deliberate and personal choice, and I cannot really disagree.

However, I’ve recently grown tired of the sexloss, and I am considering a lay of some sort. Initially I’d thought that the question lied more in the who rather than the how, but now I am not so sure.

Something that always rears an ugly head is the uncertainty. I wish I could honestly believe that I could head outside and point a finger at the man of my choice, and get them into my bed, or charm my way into theirs.

How I’d love to be able to do just that. A simple snap of the finger. And to know for sure that I could do so without fear of emotional attachment on my part. To fuck and not be left with some sort of yearning afterwards.

To not expose myself.

To not leave myself to the mercy of some guy who has no plans beyond pillaging my girl parts. I haven’t yet learned how to tell whether or not some guy has any interest in my head beyond the wet mouth part.

Wee Pat on the Back

What is it that changes?

I was unproductive for days. Weeks. I had piles of dresses and shirts that needed to be made, and every tiny bit of work I put into it was torture.

TORTURE!! TEDIUM!!! TRIAL!!!!! TRIBULATION!!!!!!!!!

So I wasted a lot of time. Harping, bitching, moaning, flailing about. It did nothing.

Then suddenly, today I was able to work.

I sewed my little heart out, I did.