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I hate waiting;
I hate trying to keep busy, but not TOO busy.

Mom will prolly call me much later.

I'm not concerned about heading over; she's got her fishing derby this weekend. I don't know if she wants to bring me along.

I called Dad earlier, in the morning. He'll call me up next week, for a little coffee, or something. If he calls Wednesday, I'll have my money, and we can do breakfast. There's something cathartic about having someone else make me eggs and toast.

I mentioned to Sarah that I'm half-ass starving myself. It gets easy quickly. I had an apple and a bowl of soup today. I'll fart like a motherfucker tonight, the soup being a lentil-bean concoction. Maybe I'll have a really epic shit to round things out.

But, topic is: I'm not eating much.

Deal is, I'm sick of ballooning weight. I was losing 7 lbs a month until the Effexor. I'm back to 130-140 lbs again. I'm not 'buy new pants' bulgy, but, if it gets to that, I may actually go through with my daydream of slitting my belly to scrape the fat out. In my imagination, I slit a thin line across the bulge. The yellow fat gushes out like some kind of thick oatmeal. My intestines stay in. In reality, I'd prolly puncture an organ in the process, or puss out at the initial insertion. Either way? It's a bad idea.

I was walking down the street, and my back-flab kept smooching while I walked, the sweat making it all the more disgusting.

I actually kind of feel fat. I know I'm not. I keep spotting belly girls in tank tops, and scowling at them for letting it all jiggle on the street. I'm a jackass, I know. I either pad like a motherfucker, or go for baggy shirts. High pants. Anything, oh, anything to make that unsightly bulge less offending.

I love the suits I wear. I can't find my vests lately, so that's been derailed. I like the suits because I can feel a little Poirot-y. I'm missing the wicked mustache, and the dainty accessories. I have a little shit-bowler hat. I'm some kind of odd Poirot/Charlie Chaplin type.

I seem to be one of the few people who references things because I actually see the material that goes with it; dated stuff, I mean. I loved Poirot, as a kid/teen. Chaplin amuses me in my adulthood.

I seem to be in a random-as-fuck mood day.

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Circa 2010