Tonight was Morons on Wheels in the O.C. Two people in the requisite gigantic SUV’s ran red lights and nearly freakin’ killed me. Then I saw a guy who had somehow driven his car at a good clip right into the center divider, where it was steaming and resting at a crazy angle on some pointy piece of city property as he and his buddy looked glum. In my current mood I just laughed and drove on. I probably should have helped.
Myself, I spent too much time today thinking about whether my new exciting metabolic disaster meant that my blood was eating me up from the inside, and also wondering if I would ever get to really enjoy food again or if I’d just have to treat it as medicine from now on. It’s a huge downer. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. When I think about it I get so angry I want to punch a hole in the wall and/or my head.
At this stage in my existence I have no love life or any reason to expect any, no career advancement likely, another chronic illness already making life somewhat more difficult and limiting and expensive, and no obvious way to change any of those things. I didn’t need this shit. One thing I had was food: I’m a good cook, I know a lot about food, I can prepare food for others and they enjoy it, I can match wine to food. It’s not just a cool hobby, it’s a way of expressing myself. This is probably over with now. What gets taken away next?
- Chronic depression, somewhat treated, since 1986
- 50 pounds overweight
- No love life for the last whenever. Not much hope of any
- Career stalled without any way of moving up
- Metabolic syndrome/insulin resistance syndrome/diabetes Lite/diabetes/WHATEVER THE FUCK THEY CALL IT THIS WEEK
- A fine set of well-polished, durable, self-destructive neuroses
I get up every day and live my life as best as I can, fixing little bits of broken crap here and there, and put a good face on it. Only because it’s expected of me by others. And I’m nothing if not obedient.