I think I have writer's block. We'll go with that, anyway. I write, I just hate every bit of what I produce. It's stilted and never what I'm trying to say. The Recycle Bin on my desktop is getting a workout. (A brief pause as I change the channel on the background noise. "Dr. Phil"... Continue Reading →
I like numbers, save for those found in high-level cosmology and physics. And that’s really a jealousy issue: I hate that I don’t speak the language. I stopped my math education at university, year one. I can mostly understand the lectures but the papers and texts might as well be Greek. Which they also use.... Continue Reading →
I wasn’t going to write about my eating disorder today. I have a draft post about my PTSD waiting for revisions. I’ve resisted looking deeply into it to date but had big plans to do so in the somewhat near future. Those plans flew out the window this morning when I put on the jeans that are supposed to be baggy only to find they were less baggy than expected. Just like that, my mental equilibrium got shot to shit...
"I’ve been obsessed with my scale of late though truthfully, I’m not exactly sure where it is. It was hidden under a pile of towels in the back of a bathroom cupboard for the longest time, ‘til my son needed it to weigh his suitcase for a trip he took in December. Where it ended up after that is a mystery and needing to know its location is an intrusive thought that I’ve been unable to discard..."