1. I got up at six o'clock this morning to make cheese and bacon muffins. I used a packet cake mix, so I ended up making vanilla flavoured cheese and bacon muffins. It was cheesy bacony goodness with the overpowering whack of sugar. It wasn't pleasant, and yet it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Still, it wasn't nice enough to make me want to do it again. I was trying to be inventive and resourceful. I can now add it to my list of things not to mix together. Like coffee and banana quik, or rice with mashed pears for dessert, which was about as exciting and bland as eating baby food, and just as gag-able.
2. Sometimes I feel bad for being happy. Like my job as a trainee in hairdressing. All I do is sweep floors and wash peoples hair at the moment. It's not glamorous or exciting, and it's most definitely not all about me. Whatever I am doesnít matter and itís great.
I don't engage in intellectual conversations. I talk about the weather. I have to touch people. Which in a way is kind of ironic because in the last year (in sobriety) I've developed a mild phobia of being touched. Being forced to sit next to someone on the bus is almost panic attack worthy. As long as they are absolutely not touching me, I can withstand the bus trip. Iíve even stopped letting my friends hug me.
There is only one person I let invade my personal space and if she does something that Iíve clearly stated that I donít like, I've been known to tell her to "not fucking touch me" and storm off in a feeling of violation, when I was in no way violated.
It raises some interesting questions.
So I guess I find it kind of funny that I have to touch people for a living Ė wash hair, massage peopleís heads Ė when I canít stand anyone touching me.
3. Tonight Iím neurotic as all fuck, and it makes absolutely no sense. In context it fits in perfectly with the rest of my life. Iím a hermit in a house I share with three other people. Iím an intellectual in love with a job that requires no use of my intellect. Iím a very affectionate person that wonít let anyone touch her. Iím a good cook that makes inedible food.
It really is a whole heap of senseless shit, that I call my life.
But then again, if it all made sense, I probably wouldnít have anything to write about.
© Indie Adams 2012