Fleekin Floygn

A while it has been.

Reading is to writing as cooking is to baking. Cooking, one can do at anytime, throw stuff together, watch it meld and common sense will get you through. Baking and writing, so many variables need to be in place or it flops. I don’t write when I’m too happy or too overwhelmed. It just seems like a burden I don’t feel like taking on.

I can honestly say that not since high school have I felt so isolated. The desperate teenage angst isn’t there, replaced by adult stoicism and acceptance of the negative, but the solitude is present. The plates, they are a-shifting. Twenty-four is fast approaching and with it the knowledge that early adulthood is drawing to a close. Mistakes are not cute any more. Responsibilities affect not only myself, but many around me and must be fulfilled to the letter. The letters D, V and the number 24. Perhaps the tragedy of adulthood is that when your ego takes a major bruising *cough*Festival*cough*, you don’t fight against the cause but rather drop trou and take it. At least with the irrationality of adolescence comes a sense that you deserve better, whereas now we’re nothing more than victims of our own doings, imperfect in a world that demands everything. There is no satisfaction in completing a task because no one is waiting to hand you a cookie anymore. It’s simply on to the next obligation. I tell people about the things I’m doing and they’re so generous with enthusiasm and congratulations, but the entire time I’m thinking, “Then why do I feel like such an abject failure?” Bizarre to the Nth.

Friends are utter failures at this point, a feeling which is most likely reciprocated. We’re all so selfish at this time of year, necessarily so in some cases, less in others. So much to do and so many ways in which to deal. Personally, I need people in my down time to continue with the work. Others are the opposite, but even when we both need that contact, schedules rarely align for play. To compound the physical aspect of that need, my semi-regular bedfellow has found himself in a rel-…rela-…what is that thing called ag-…ah yes. Relationship. It’s amazing how bi-weekly, (mostly) platonic sleepovers can keep the demons of restlessness away and more amazing still how notable their absences are.

In other news, working out for a few months and then stopping is a bad idea. Like, really bad. Fat is a bitter bitch, determined to make her presence known on my ass now more than ever. The recent hiring of last year’s crush to play in my recital and the recent hiring of celluloid on my buttocks has led me to a five-days-a-week gym routine for the next month. Starting today. We’ll see.