Today is lame because I am sick. Note that I: 1) hate hearing other people cough, 2) hate listening to other people complain about feeling bad, 3) forget each time I'm sick how fucking depressed it makes me. So, today is mega lame because I am all of the above, and I don't feel any better even after being home for a full day and a half, mostly just sleeping and being a waste of life.
I almost cried about missing my grandmother today. I do miss her, and I am entitled to cry, but I pride myself on being stronger than that. Until, of course, I cry, and then I hate myself for the self-induced headache. Fuck that.
Probably this illness is self-induced, too. I went to E City last weekend to visit Emelia (a week ago exactly), stepping out for 3 days of the warm, blustery cocoon of my city to subject myself willingly to really, really cold temperatures that I was wholly unprepared for. Fuck that. The weekend was incredible, and I truly feel I gained some insights into myself that I'm grateful for, but I also chose to inundate my system with substances: waaaay too many cigarettes, sugar, high gravity alcohol, weed, and probably worst (but BEST) of all, Ecstasy.
Oh. My. God. I fucking love Ecstasy. These pills, pink stamped with a dolphin, have been sitting in my naughty box (which also holds some dried shrooms, bags of weed, herbal marijauna, like, 3 (?) pieces, a grinder, some lighters...ya know, typical goodies. My condoms and sex toys get their own naughty drawer.) for exactly one year and gosh, it was time to take them already. What a prime opportunity, then, in E City with one of my besties from college (who happens to be pretty open to drugs, for which I'm eternally grateful because I don't have anyone else like that in my life, basically), in the city where house music was born.
So we took them on Friday, after having spent the day walking, seeing sights, eating sugar, basically not resting at all...we took them on empty stomachs at 9:30. We rolled, hard, until we finally forced ourselves to bed at 6:00 am. During the course of the night, I smoked probably 3 cigarettes, and continued to smoke them the rest of the weekend as I came down, hard. I sort of feel like I'm still coming down.
The flip side of ecstasy is sickness, depression, and lack of motivation. Also, a desire to recapture that feeling, which is impossible and only chemically induced.
Or, I need to have sex.
Anyway, this is what the night felt like. It was incredible. If I could capture that feeling in a bottle and drink from it...oh, who am I kidding, all the damn time, I would be so happy. More evidence: I love drugs.
And my body apparently doesn't. So, to honor both my body's and my mind's needs, I'm going to take a long bathshower (a hot bath followed by a shower. A water indulgence, I recognize this.), break out my vibrator if I have the energy, watch an episode of Glee, and knock back some hydrocodone to sleep restfully tonight, because, unfortunately, skipping work tomorrow is really not an option.
Lame-O.
xoxo
Gillian
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
My Final Day
...as a 23-year-young woman. On this, the auspicious Valentine's Day, I spend my final hours in a year that has meant so much, has been so successful, so easy-going, so worry free. My youth has succeeded in winning this year. Nary a plan has been made for my future, which officially ends in August along with my lease. I live my day hour to hour, my months week to week, and my life minute to minute. Life inexorably plows onward, but I take the time to appreciate only what's before me, even if it ultimately turns into a stoned stupor from which my brain cannot escape. Is this a good thing? Or a bad? I have yet to decide. I honestly should give up smoking, I know, but I have no reason to. When I do, I don't think I'll miss it. For now, it keeps me company.
Flawed elements of my 23rd year: I had far too little sex. I had my car broken into and my purse stolen. My cat killed a neighbor's guinea pig. I planned not one iota into the future. I spent the entire year single. Entirely my own fault, but still a stupid flaw. I grew up a little bit, but I feel it only made me more aware of how much growing I still have left to do.
Good things of my 23rd year: I did have sex with Cane and Clark. So it wasn't totally sexless. Just the last 7 months or so. I got a job at Emma. I was introduced to and fell in love with climbing, yoga, and running. Very regular exercise became a big healthy change in my life, along with a drastic overhaul of my eating habits. I lost weight (?). I became a damn good dresser, if I don't say so myself. And I do. As Kirida put it, "Why you so fine, girl?"
I'm getting there, anyhoo.
Today is eventful. My last day with 23 (although I do think 24 sounds sexier - why is that?). The first truly warm day of 2011. I woke up before my alarm, happy and giddy for no good reason. Oh yeah, Cayden asked me to lunch excusemewhileIhyperventilate. Even crazier than this practically impossible situation of a lunch date with him is the fact that I turned him down. WHAT ON EARTH WAS I THINKING? In my defense, today's lunch from Caroline was epic (there were beets!), and I can't turn down free lunch. Oh right, and then we got tangled up having a conversation about this little gem. Thus why I got really stoned and spent an hour at the gym laughing at Sex on the City with probably every other single person in Cityville. The sexiest girl I've seen in a while got on the treadmill just in front of me, and I drooled over her while she shook around in her Lulu running skirt. I gotta get me one of those!
Time for shower, cereal, and vibrator. Happy Birthday to me!
xoxo
Gillian
Flawed elements of my 23rd year: I had far too little sex. I had my car broken into and my purse stolen. My cat killed a neighbor's guinea pig. I planned not one iota into the future. I spent the entire year single. Entirely my own fault, but still a stupid flaw. I grew up a little bit, but I feel it only made me more aware of how much growing I still have left to do.
Good things of my 23rd year: I did have sex with Cane and Clark. So it wasn't totally sexless. Just the last 7 months or so. I got a job at Emma. I was introduced to and fell in love with climbing, yoga, and running. Very regular exercise became a big healthy change in my life, along with a drastic overhaul of my eating habits. I lost weight (?). I became a damn good dresser, if I don't say so myself. And I do. As Kirida put it, "Why you so fine, girl?"
I'm getting there, anyhoo.
Today is eventful. My last day with 23 (although I do think 24 sounds sexier - why is that?). The first truly warm day of 2011. I woke up before my alarm, happy and giddy for no good reason. Oh yeah, Cayden asked me to lunch excusemewhileIhyperventilate. Even crazier than this practically impossible situation of a lunch date with him is the fact that I turned him down. WHAT ON EARTH WAS I THINKING? In my defense, today's lunch from Caroline was epic (there were beets!), and I can't turn down free lunch. Oh right, and then we got tangled up having a conversation about this little gem. Thus why I got really stoned and spent an hour at the gym laughing at Sex on the City with probably every other single person in Cityville. The sexiest girl I've seen in a while got on the treadmill just in front of me, and I drooled over her while she shook around in her Lulu running skirt. I gotta get me one of those!
Time for shower, cereal, and vibrator. Happy Birthday to me!
xoxo
Gillian
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Desperate Action
Not truly an act of desperation, because the ends are really only a continuation of my prolonged, self-inflicted, immature tortuous activities, but an action that is inherently desperate.
I speak of my choice to open up my work computer (a foul, foul infringement, I believe, of my personal time, this work thing) solely for the purpose of seeing if my crush? obsession? soul-rendering consumption? is online. And you know what? He is.
HE IS.
How inappropriate would it be for me to open up a chat with him? What if he chats with me (he won't, damn him, he's so professionally reserved)? Why is my heart literally thumping out of my chest at the thought? What kind of maniac deranged single-minded idiot am I to be so freaking hung up on this fellow? Yes, he's damn near perfect. I was moist all day due to our reinvigorated conversation today. I mean literally, my entire body goes into hyperdrive at the mere thought of him. I am literally quivering just at the sight of his name in my iChat.
All I can think is that desperate action must be taken to cease what is currently deluded nonsense. I need to slap my own self silly. Now I'm not going to be able to sleep my loins are so keyed up. [Inherent problem: my loins are so entertwined with my mind that when my clit can't sleep, neither can I. My stomach is unfortunately also tuned into that channel. Sigh.]
So what do I want from all this? This is a question that I can't seem to answer. I'm convinced I'm head over heels for this man. Problem is, until I get to test that theory, I'll never know. He's taken. BUT he's elusive. He's enigmatic. He's mature. He's gentle, kind, considerate. He's devastating. But he's also completely unavailable to me. Me, being me, and pretty much incapable of resisting my impulses, I'll keep taunting him and myself, without ever conclusively solving the issue.
There's also the part where I'm afraid, as I am with everyone, that I'm going to annoy him. What if he doesn't want me bothering him? But what if he does?
GAH. Consumed. I imagine I won't solve any big mysteries tonight. And I'll probably give in and chat with him. Maybe I'll resist.
I hoped this would calm me down, getting my thoughts from head down on paper, thereby relieving my brain from the pressure of unrelenting thinking about him....apparently not. FML.
xoxo,
Gillian
I speak of my choice to open up my work computer (a foul, foul infringement, I believe, of my personal time, this work thing) solely for the purpose of seeing if my crush? obsession? soul-rendering consumption? is online. And you know what? He is.
HE IS.
How inappropriate would it be for me to open up a chat with him? What if he chats with me (he won't, damn him, he's so professionally reserved)? Why is my heart literally thumping out of my chest at the thought? What kind of maniac deranged single-minded idiot am I to be so freaking hung up on this fellow? Yes, he's damn near perfect. I was moist all day due to our reinvigorated conversation today. I mean literally, my entire body goes into hyperdrive at the mere thought of him. I am literally quivering just at the sight of his name in my iChat.
All I can think is that desperate action must be taken to cease what is currently deluded nonsense. I need to slap my own self silly. Now I'm not going to be able to sleep my loins are so keyed up. [Inherent problem: my loins are so entertwined with my mind that when my clit can't sleep, neither can I. My stomach is unfortunately also tuned into that channel. Sigh.]
So what do I want from all this? This is a question that I can't seem to answer. I'm convinced I'm head over heels for this man. Problem is, until I get to test that theory, I'll never know. He's taken. BUT he's elusive. He's enigmatic. He's mature. He's gentle, kind, considerate. He's devastating. But he's also completely unavailable to me. Me, being me, and pretty much incapable of resisting my impulses, I'll keep taunting him and myself, without ever conclusively solving the issue.
There's also the part where I'm afraid, as I am with everyone, that I'm going to annoy him. What if he doesn't want me bothering him? But what if he does?
GAH. Consumed. I imagine I won't solve any big mysteries tonight. And I'll probably give in and chat with him. Maybe I'll resist.
I hoped this would calm me down, getting my thoughts from head down on paper, thereby relieving my brain from the pressure of unrelenting thinking about him....apparently not. FML.
xoxo,
Gillian
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Recent Musings
A sweaty session doing Tabata HIIT sessions on the upright cycle left me pondering a few things, especially after I weighed myself and found I had dropped 6 pounds in 3 weeks (!!!). I decided to have my body fat and all that measured, only to find out that a) I weigh *12* full pounds less than I did 7 months ago (is that alarming? Or normal for an active person? Something to be proud of? Or ashamed of? Were the scales accurate???) and b) my body fat percentage is less than 20%, which is pretty ideal for a lady. In fact, I was in the "Ideal" range according to the Microfit equipment.
Even though I'm actually back to my high school weight (whoda thunk? I'm still reeling from this stellar stat), I feel heavier and less sexy than I almost ever have. I flip through Facebook photos and think, gosh, my eyebrows are a little crooked, my part is stupid, my skin is so shiny, my knees are too big, etc., etc. Getting dressed last night, all I could see was the bulge my freshly fed lower belly was adding to my otherwise decent profile. This led to nearly 45 minutes of outfit-altering, but each addition or removal only led to more disgust and self-loating.
I felt sort of okay while out dancing, but I think it was all the weed and mushrooms I consumed before heading out.
This entire week I have been filled with utter disgust with myself. I have actually thought, very concretely, that I'm ashamed I don't have the self-control to be anorexic. And you know what? I am ashamed. I'd give anything to be that tightly controlled in my life, to be able to deny myself pleasures that my immature, instant-gratification-seeking self simply must have. But alas, I am me, and that is someone who cannot resist carbs (although I'm doing waaaaay better than I was), dessert, afternoon naps, and married men.
To further add to my vastly underwhelming evening of much-anticipated dancing and release, the music last night was lame, and my company, although very, very well-intentioned, was more burdensome than relaxing. What is wrong with me that I have to be so damn picky? There I was, handsome man in hand (literally), kissing in my car while the cold rain dripped around us. The perfect opportunity to frolick forth and fuck, n'est-ce pas? He did nothing for me. I was thinking about the other man in my life, my hang up, my agony, the source of my recent self-loathing: my married boss.
The exquisite difference between the two is that I literally cannot be in the same room at work, nay, the same office, without actually dripping with desire. My face flushes, my breathe catches, my words elude me, my skin quivers, and, I truly believe, my molecules reorient themselves so they can best bask in his masculine power while my entity as a whole disintegrates into mush. My heart actually skips a beat when he walks by unannounced.
Skip to last night, which was in utter contrast to this week. Barry is handsome, employed, fun, generous, a good dancer (that part was actually enjoyable), and best (or worst) of all, into me. Having tasted heart-quickening attraction as recently as 4:50 pm on Friday afternoon, I know when my mojo just ain't interested. Much to my dismay. Where's my "on" switch? Why can't I just be a slut? While sweating at the gym this past week, I read a stat in Self that lowered my spirits even more: There's a huge percentage of single women getting laid every single week of their lives. I can't track down the exact number, but whatevs - that was my chance! My libido should have been vibrating itself to orgasm by the prime opportunity at its fingertips. But alas and woe is me. I think he figured out pretty quickly that my mind was elsewhere, and graciously bowed out of my evening before I had to kick him out.
My logic right now is this: if I can kick my own ass and get my body fat percentage down a few points, maybe I'll be sexy enough that I can finally snag the man I really want. I want to be irresistible. At best? It works! At worst? I'll be in the best shape of my life. Here's to self-experimentation!
Cheers,
Gillian
Even though I'm actually back to my high school weight (whoda thunk? I'm still reeling from this stellar stat), I feel heavier and less sexy than I almost ever have. I flip through Facebook photos and think, gosh, my eyebrows are a little crooked, my part is stupid, my skin is so shiny, my knees are too big, etc., etc. Getting dressed last night, all I could see was the bulge my freshly fed lower belly was adding to my otherwise decent profile. This led to nearly 45 minutes of outfit-altering, but each addition or removal only led to more disgust and self-loating.
I felt sort of okay while out dancing, but I think it was all the weed and mushrooms I consumed before heading out.
This entire week I have been filled with utter disgust with myself. I have actually thought, very concretely, that I'm ashamed I don't have the self-control to be anorexic. And you know what? I am ashamed. I'd give anything to be that tightly controlled in my life, to be able to deny myself pleasures that my immature, instant-gratification-seeking self simply must have. But alas, I am me, and that is someone who cannot resist carbs (although I'm doing waaaaay better than I was), dessert, afternoon naps, and married men.
To further add to my vastly underwhelming evening of much-anticipated dancing and release, the music last night was lame, and my company, although very, very well-intentioned, was more burdensome than relaxing. What is wrong with me that I have to be so damn picky? There I was, handsome man in hand (literally), kissing in my car while the cold rain dripped around us. The perfect opportunity to frolick forth and fuck, n'est-ce pas? He did nothing for me. I was thinking about the other man in my life, my hang up, my agony, the source of my recent self-loathing: my married boss.
The exquisite difference between the two is that I literally cannot be in the same room at work, nay, the same office, without actually dripping with desire. My face flushes, my breathe catches, my words elude me, my skin quivers, and, I truly believe, my molecules reorient themselves so they can best bask in his masculine power while my entity as a whole disintegrates into mush. My heart actually skips a beat when he walks by unannounced.
Skip to last night, which was in utter contrast to this week. Barry is handsome, employed, fun, generous, a good dancer (that part was actually enjoyable), and best (or worst) of all, into me. Having tasted heart-quickening attraction as recently as 4:50 pm on Friday afternoon, I know when my mojo just ain't interested. Much to my dismay. Where's my "on" switch? Why can't I just be a slut? While sweating at the gym this past week, I read a stat in Self that lowered my spirits even more: There's a huge percentage of single women getting laid every single week of their lives. I can't track down the exact number, but whatevs - that was my chance! My libido should have been vibrating itself to orgasm by the prime opportunity at its fingertips. But alas and woe is me. I think he figured out pretty quickly that my mind was elsewhere, and graciously bowed out of my evening before I had to kick him out.
My logic right now is this: if I can kick my own ass and get my body fat percentage down a few points, maybe I'll be sexy enough that I can finally snag the man I really want. I want to be irresistible. At best? It works! At worst? I'll be in the best shape of my life. Here's to self-experimentation!
Cheers,
Gillian
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)