I'm sitting on a screed (saved as a draft) that I will never be able to post online because of the dastardly implications should I be so foolish. Generally, the awareness that a disaster is preventable is not apparent to me until after the catastrophe hits, but this one, I'm fairly certain, is simply a lot of bad noise waiting to happen.
Not that I'd have to worry about much, anyway, even if I did post the thing. As far as I can tell, readership on this worthless blog of mine has nearly hit zero; and the page visits these stats widgets do record can almost certainly be chalked up to random noise generated by spambots and the more than billion Google searches logged per day. In fact, almost all of my traffic is generated by a single post (What Is a Vampire?) and only because the words "Robert Pattinson in Twilight" appear within it. I doubt these visitors comprise the demographic I'm courting, nor do I believe they do much more than right-click Pattinson's picture and save it to their hard drives.
So yes. I'll keep a lid on it for now—at least until the statute of limitations has passed. If that means swallowing the last tiny nugget of pride I have left, so be it.
But that's no reason not to subject you all to a dose of petty blathering today, a Friday bathed in a sun we haven't seen for weeks in these parts, a Friday just as awful and horrifying as any other I've ever lived through. My physical condition continues to deteriorate at an ever-increasing pace, and not because it has to. The things we must do to stay alive simply require more effort than they are worth, especially eating. Run a cost-benefit analysis on the individual consumption of food, and the inexorable truths begin to come into focus. To fix a bagged lunch, I must rise too early in the morning. To acquire nourishment from one of the establishments surrounding my office, I must fight through a frothing mob of motorists, not to mention a seemingly endless minefield of construction zones, potholes, witless shoppers, police officers, and airborne viruses. The vending machine candy bars cost at least a dollar; the Cup-a-Soups are nothing more than freeze-dried lizard testicles in salt broth. Frankly, I don't have time to deal with it.
Practical anorexia has its benefits, though I do miss the days when my pants didn't hang like Mongolian yurts over my legs, barely clinging to my waist by a belt already modified with an extra notch. When food becomes an absolute necessity to maintain function—usually just before my eyes go suddenly dark and a tremendous, sweaty jolt of fatigue and famine courses through my withering frame—the decision is based on a rubric containing one requirement: calories. A Butterfinger has 240 of them, which is almost always just enough to get me home from work and onto the couch where I will spend the rest of the evening wallowing in borderline delirium and despair. This amount of caloric energy will also allow for some ill-advised screaming at the television when the Bulls' game is on, but no more than three outbursts per quarter and none at Keith Bogans. Hollering at him is simply too draining.
The problem tonight is that I will soon have a weekend to fill. Perhaps it's time to default to the tactics I employed in my early twenties. Perhaps it's finally time to dig up that old Moleskine again and hunker down at a bar to drink bitters and scribble unconscionable, libelous rants about the people around me—every once in a while raising my head to see if someone is watching, maybe the girl down at the end of the bar who, if we were in a movie, would saunter up and say something witty and literary, kicking off a lame montage backed by a bittersweet love song from whatever indie band hit it big right before the release. But that never happens. The reserved male never gets the girl, which is a truth I used to deny with every intellectual fiber. I said the idea was ludicrous, that we were not ruled by displays of dominance and that our mating rituals had grown far more nuanced over millions of years. How idiotic I was those long five or six years ago.
And now, I'm practically geriatric. At twenty-six. You don't even want to know the extent of the truth, but you young ones should count your lucky stars, anyhow. You're not going to have to spend the next thirty odd years garnishing your oatmeal with Pepto-Bismol and cock pills.
Is that all I've got in me? I suppose I did spend my reserves on the shelved post to which I referred in opening, but Jesus: This is all I can muster for a Friday afternoon rant as the sun goes down?
Fuck it then. My shift is over, anyway, and I've got to grab a Butterfinger if I want to avoid drifting into oncoming traffic and putting someone else's life at risk. The way I see, there's no reason to bring collateral damage into it unless they've signed all the waivers.