20251217

Here we go again---instinctual disillusionment. I think about why I'm here again. I thought about a paper diary; the pages piling up, the used notebooks---the satisfying results, but only half-satisfaction. There is no exhibition. I have exposed myself to no-one. There are no potential voyeurs; there are no ceaseless watchers; there is only myself and my void. How plain. How boring. How unexciting.

At first, I wondered if M--- had ruined the text editor for me. How easily influenced. But that's not right. When he commented on the text editor, I was not convinced to change. I was emboldened. Yes, I shall mis-use the text editor. I shall create .txt and .html files with reckless abandon. I can make a website by hand---even if invalidated, I will enjoy it more than the inconveniences of a website builder. I refuse to use drag-and-drop. It bores and annoyes me.

So why the lack of writing. I have the rare, inconsistent diary entries on paper and screen. They don't satisfy me. I think I need to publish them---a loose use of the word---to go through with them. I look for thrill. Maybe this is why H--- wasn't enough. My writing had to be limited. I had to restrict myself to the topic; I had to deny my tangents and my soul to fit the topic. Here I can let loose. Here I can be exposed, and thus be myself.

The timer will go off soon. Then I will need to check a recipe and turn on the oven. I am making earl gray caneles. The batter has rested since Monday night. It is Wednesday, mid-morning. I'd thought about making marshmallows. I'd contemplated testing part of the yule log recipe---testing the matcha moss and the meringue. I have not made meringue before. My spelling looks incorrect. This is a drawback of a text editor---lacking in spell-check and auto correct. I have written too much on my phone. I long to transform. My writing will transcend myself, or it will be a true reflection of myself. These words are not mine, but they feel more true than most of my writing.

As of late, my writing has felt stilted and censored. Even when I admit my desires to myself do I feel like I'm lying. Perhaps the medium affects this. I try to admit to myself that I lust after T---, but that's a lie. I try to say that I project onto him because he's the closest guy who treats me like a person. He treats me like a person, but the rest is a lie. I like him as a person, but I'd rather not spend any more time around him. I think of a saying: do you want to be (with) her?. I'd like to steal some of his traits and make them my own. I envy his hard-earned, well-used body. I want his arms, his hands, his strength. He knows himself and is fine being alone. He is himself. I am not myself. I hate myself. I want to be at home in myself. I want to be me. I am no-one, much less someone else, much less my self. Do you follow? Do you understand? I am the rejection of myself. I have denied myself. I have killed my self without remaking her. I have attempted to substitute my reincarnation with someone else's, yet I've never given my own reincarnation a chance. I've rejected myself for being myself---a pure self-hatred.

In recognizing what I've done, I find hope. I have failed to become these personas because they are not mine. I have latched onto falsehoods without trying to know myself. I have failed at my goals because they aren't mine. Yes. This is the truth. My goals are rarely mine. I have begun to discover my goals---are they goals or values. What I care about above all else; what I will do no matter. I notice how I bake. I am tired, but I said I'd bake, so I bake. I do not want to leave my bed, yet I need to finish assembling this, so I get out of bed earlier than ever. While I hesitate, I see that the hesitation is false. It does not get the best of me. I did not want to eat dinner, but I realized I could make baked oatmeal, and so I did and ate dinner. I conquered my challenge effortlessly.

I am trying to value my body. It is hard, when it does not feel like mine. I don't look at myself in the mirror. When I do, I think: I look like that? I've become fine with my face. I started using---was it retinol?---earlier this year, and have seen a significant improvement in discolorations I thought were permanent. I love my short hair. I want to buzz it off again, but I'm telling myself to wait for warmer weather. I don't hate my hair. I don't hate my face. The rest of my body feels lacking. My legs are fine. When I shower, I notice how firm my calves feel. I notice how my arms aren't flabby, but they have too much give to them. I don't look at my back in the mirror either. I want the muscular back that I see on fitness women on Youtube. I think I'll have it once I can do a pull-up. I still can't do a pull-up. I can hang, I can move myself an inch; my negatives are uncontrolled and unforgivable. I need more.

I'm getting better at valuing my environment. I notice how I want things to be clean. I sweep the floor. I woke up and cleaned off the blanket and took care of the dishes. I notice how little I hesitate. I care for my surroundings, but not for my body. I can see this in how I eat, or rather, how I don't eat. I am not eating enough. I count the calories---even when I eat 'too many' carbs, I am not eating enough. I take protein powder but not enough. It's not enough. I do not care about myself and I struggle to figure out how. This is my body, but I am not using it. I am rejecting it.

BAKE 430F FOR 10 MIN BAKE 360F FOR 60 MIN

20251219

Making another batch of caneles. Same recipe. Melted butter with milk. No earl gray. 10g imitation vanilla extract; sub rum with equal amount of port. Plan is to do same bake time but fill mold more (closer to 90% than 75%).

Yesterday really fucking sucked. I spent most of my shift doing the dishes. There weren't that many dishes. I also peeled garlic and shredded 42.5lb of cheese. 8hr of that shit, all while asking "do you guys need help with anything?" and being met with "no, just keep doing what you're doing." I was going to ask boss1 if I could leave early. I was wasting time, I knew it, and if he looked at what was going on he would have seen it too. Barista coworker saw I was waiting to talk to him and asked why. Then he told me there was no reason for boss1 to let me leave early, so I might as well go scrub the basement. I didn't have a response to this. I swept the basement and cried. How the fuck am I so useless. They don't want me to work the tickets. They don't want me to do prep. They want me to stay out of the kitchen. At least boss1 was surprised to hear about how bad it was. He was trying to talk to me at the end of the shift---I heard you guys had a busy lunch rush---and didn't seem like he expected to hear me say that they kept telling me they didn't need/want my help, and that I spent most of my shift doing the dishes. I think he pointed out how helpful me doing the cheese was to try to make me feel better. Usually that's not something I get any appreciation for.

I'm looking at the clock and dreading going to work. Three of the guys are there. I'll probably end up doing dishes or finishing the garlic. Maybe I'll get to work on peanuts. Maybe coworker1 will get to leave early---he did last week. But there's so many of us working tonight. The boys + new girl will take over the kitchen. Grunt boy might be on expo, which will at least mean I get to do dishes. If he isn't on expo then I won't have anything to do until 7, when the rest of opening has left. That's five hours into my shift...what am I doing here?

20251221

My computer screen feels too bright, but it's on the lowest setting. I pretend that tapping the button will make it go lower, and then I close my eyes. My socks itch; I slide them off. The music starts to feel too loud. I miss the button to decrease the volume, and then I do hit it. I notice a certain kind of headache in the back of my neck.

Today, ---- took us to ice-skating and hotpot. And a bakery. This was interesting. I appreciated the time and food. formerCoworker was there too. I don't have much to say. It was uneventful, but in a good way.

The caneles came out okay. I used port in place of rum. The caramelization was excellent. My prose feels stilted. My mind is elsewhere. I want to turn off the computer and lay down. I want to strip; feel the cold air against my skin. I want a balance between listening to music with noise-cancelling headphones, which is slightly uncomfortable, and wearing earplugs, which block out all noise but are less uncomfortable. I need to remove the excess noise. I need to remove the excess sensation and be one with myself. I place the blanket oover my head to further destroy the light from my computer. e I adjust, remove another layer,, and notice how I desire the ideal balance between warm and cold. Courtesy of my layers, I've become uncomfortably warm.I wonder if this is because my head is now under a blanket. I decide to dismiss it. Writing with my eyes closed is strangely challenging. I worry that I've clicked out of tht ext editor without noticing. The door downstairs slams. I My headphones are on; I turn up the volume to hide from the burst of noise. Anxiety creeps over me. I need the silence. I say: if I hear more noise, I will add white noise, but in my paranoia I find noise. I don't know if it's there, if I can tune it out, or if I'll---my sentence has vanished. I need the white noise. I open my eyes and am annoyed by the glare. After a brief ssearch, the gentle thrum of white noise brown noise fills in the cracks in the sound. I reach down to scratch an itch. I let my hand drift further, below the top of my pajama pants. I touch myself over my underwear for a moment, wondering what it would feel like if my hands were someone else's. I notice my timid scratches, the brief strokes and teasing, the thrumming desire to shove the massage gun between my legs and let it do the work. I wonder how someone else would feel. How would they treat me. How would I treat them? And then the fantasy's gone. I know nothing of others, much less pleasing others; the situations I desire sound like a nightmare for reality, where neither my fictional partner or myself enjoy the encounter. I think i want a man to hold me, but I'm content to be alone. Or am I. I crave touch. Yes, that's it. I think of how much I want to hugsomeone and be hugged by someone. I crave the warmth of someone else in a way that can't be satisfied by accidental physical contact. I want something deliberate and lasting. Yes, that's it. I want to be held, or I want to hold someone, or both. I want some fictional other who will state their desires and hear mine; where our wants suit each other and we fulfill each other.

Still, I'm alone. I want to know what it's like to not be alone. I want to know what I'm missing out on, yet I'm not desperate enough to download a dating app. I need to do IRL things and meet IRL people. I'd just like to not be alone. I'm tired of exhausting loneliness. Where are the lifelong friendships? My coworkers have them, yet I don't. Am I fated to be alone?

20251222

Still thinking about how much S--- bothered me on Thursday. I wanted to leave early because we had too many people here. I was killing time, and anybody who saw what I was doing would know it. boss1 would've recognized this; anytime he has, he's let me leave early. Yet S had to go ahead and say there was no reason for him to let me leave early, so I should go clean the basement. Scrub the basement floor is what he actually said. He'd never do that. He boasts about how he's glad he doesn't have to do certain things, all of which are things I have to do. I'm glad I don't work Saturdays okay well I do. You guys are fucked yes, because you're being lazy and screwing us over. I don't mind doing the dishes but if anybody asks you to do the dishes, you ignore them, or say you'll find someone else to do them, and then you go back to scrolling through your phone. I don't want to be here then don't??? Find a new job??? Well, I've heard he's paid well. And boss1 likes him. Asshole recognize asshole, I guess. Both of them blame me for their own mistakes. If you just told me I did tell you. Repeatedly. You're a terrible listener.

Did I mention that the caneles caramelized really well? The outside is like toffee, and the inside is custard-y. I want to look for more canele flavors to try. Matcha doesn't sound appealing. I want something that accentuates the richness of the dessert. I want to look at flavor essences more---maybe they have the answer. Butterscotch?

---

I cover my face, hands, and computer. There's a temporary anxiety---what if the text editor doesn't recognize me? I tried, I tried, to run and hide. I even tried to run away. By typing some lyrics, I miss the rest. I'm listening to the soundtrack for Only Lovers Left Alive. I haven't seen the movie. Is this weird? To w loop the soundtrack for a movie I have no interest in watching? I believe in my own weirdness. I wonder if I'm comfortable. My arm itches slightly. I remove the sweater, engage in some scratching, and wonder if this is a gin sign that I'm falling asleep. I am awake and thirsty and I need to blow my nose again. How annoying. I am tired of this body's sensations. It is distracted by the little things--the way a particular seem feels against my leg, the wy the fuzzy socks bump against my feet, the way the fabric creases in my armpit, the way the underwear bites into my ass . Pause. Adjust. Tug. My fingertips find their way back to the soft bumps on the keyboard, of f and j. Their familiarity. They are my constant companions, even as my itchy ear gathers all of my attention. My dry lips. Do I want to listen to music? I like the atmosphere it sets for myself. I am not center stage, so I may write. If I were to be center stage, to be in my silence---what would there be?

I'm trying to think about what it means for me to take care of my body and respect it. I showered in the morning---not because I wanted to shower, but because I thought it would be the habit of someone who cared about her body. I go to work and stand by the fryer; I become covered in countless scents and material things. My shirt contains cheese and jicama. The onions and garlic seep into my skin. I have lost my train---oh, on self-respect. . I do not think: do I want to engage in basic hygiene. I think: I will engage in basic hygiene because it means I respect my body. This is working for me. I knoow I must do the things. I must elevate my body and recognize its value. I think ahead: when will this turn to makeup and exercise? When will I see exercize as something I owe to myself to do? When will I fall in love with makeup, the way so many women do? I think about the coquette style, that particular slightly trashy makeup look. Where the girl has the cheapest lip gloss, mascara, and eyeshadow she could find. I think of the Lana Del Ray album. You know the one. I want a sort of androgynous beauty. I do not see myself in femininity; I will write feminintiy for myself. I think of looking cute. I have no interest in hiding my acne; i will not wear the mask that others succumb to. However...I will think about accenting what exists. I think of lip gloss and mascara. Bring out the lips and lashes. Would that make a difference? Some women paint their faces on. I cannot imagine myself engaging in the painstaking transformation. That is not how I want to spend my day, I think. I will not wear another's face.

My iftness goals are a string of constant failure. I tell myself that I will start by eating three meals a day. I will not count calories; I will not verify nutrients; I will eat three times a day and I will not avoid it.

20251225

Do I need to write? I rambled about goals and made haphazard plans. I tell myself I'll complete 75 hard, and that I'll do all the other things I keep telling myself I'll set out to do. Look, I say. I have a bullet journal. I'm making the plans. I will follow through. I downloaded a book. I make a mental note of my workouts. I say: I will focus on doing a pullup. I say: I will do a pullup by the end of February. I say: I will work on my splits too. I say: I will max out the grip-strength trainer. I say I say I say. I like having my goals written out. My stomach feels slightly ill.

Tomorrow, I will go to work. Someone will ask what I did yesterday. Not much, I'll say, I don't really celebrate Christmas (why the really). I've no-one to celebrate with. boss2 told me to hang out with coworker1 (why???) and P---, who I've never met. I hope he doesn't interrogate me about my lack of doing anything. I hope we don't see him this weekend. I'll probably hear more annoyances. Look at how much fun everyone else is having.

I looked around, thought about going into Boston, realized I'm too late for free holiday markets. Still, I could go in and go to that tea place. But just that? Hmm...yeah, the things I want to do don't justify the trip. I'll go to the tea place when I go see the movie. I need to buy tickets.

20251226

I so want to read into ---'s joke about using protection and pretend that there's a reason why he waited until the other guys weren't a part of the conversation. In reality, there is nothing to read into. I want to have had a better response---good boy---than to have only made a comment about taking care of everything else so he can focus on handling sausages. I am glad that we have finished eating the sausages--- --- was the only one who could make good jokes. The other two were just moaning. Only at work are dirty jokes and inappropriate noises par for course.

Still, I can't shake the notice of how much I want an excuse to call --- a good boy.

Anywho. I spent time outlining my goals yesterday, yet I'm already prepared to discard some of them. Notice. Notice. Notice. What am I not questioning---my desire to do pull-ups, to work on back/upper body, grip strength; what am I questioning---subscribing to a particular challenge (75 hard). I set my rules and I play by my rules. Over time, I've developed some understanding of what works for me. I need to recognize that understanding instead of listening to someone else tell me what to do. I got slightly farther into my pull-up. It's not much progress, but I did notice that I was now able to bend my arm slightly more than usual. That used to be---or feel?---impossible. Now, I have the slightest bit more mobility. I go to the pull-up bar to test it out; it's still there. I'm a fraction of a centimeter closer. I hold onto this. I tell myself: with determined, focused training, I will be able to do a pull-up by the end of February. It's a secret goal (she says, to the internet). I do not mention it to people IRL. It's for me. I will fucking do it.

The raise hasn't happened. I wonder if I'll see any sort of end-of-year bonus, like I did last year. I've made a mental note: I'll ask about it in February. December was the wrong time, January would work, if not for management's vacation, but February could work. There's one hiccup. The due-date gives me hope. I have two more mental notes. If it doesn't happen by July, I can look to move to bigCity with public transport. My lease expires in August. I'd like to wait another year before moving, though. I like my current place. I'd be fine with living here until I can afford a studio apartment. But that'd require me to nearly double my current income. I watched videos of graphic design side-hustles and wondered if I could do that. I think of the trackers I designed last year---printables I nearly uploaded to etsy before realizing there was a fee attached to them. Mental note: maybe that could be worthwhile. Devote time to it every day for a month, bite the bullet and upload, see what happens. I could do that. It sounds manageable enough.

A car sounds like freedom. I feel trapped, so I crave the freedom, so I crave the car.

I fantasize and lose shape; attempt to catalogue my distractions. My apprenticeship, in progress, a copycat or a path I'll make my own. New booklists and remembering how to track reading. Finding new books; knowing this is the book. Remembering. Grocery lists and groceries. It is midnight. I must wake within seven hours; I have work at eleven. I leave for the grocery store around 8 and return by 9. I leave for work at 10:30 and return around 19:30. I fantasize about leaving work early, forgetting that New Years' is just around the corner (one of the busiest days of the year). New pages---photos, groceries.

Hey. Today wasn't that bad. It was slow enough to give me the chance to tackle some cleaning I don't typically get the chance to take care of. Closing irritated me. S--- looks bored and unresponsive; he's not trying to do anything. He stands there, arms crossed, daring us to give him a task, looking for ways out of work he doesn't want to do. Convincing him to do things is irritating. I understand the boredom, but we're not being paid to stand around. Cleaning matters just as much as everything else. A--- fidgets. She's responsive. She lacks initiative, but when given a task, she follows through. I grew tired of pointing out things that need to be done. Can't they look around? At least C--- finished up his tasks and was able to take over working with them. I took the opportunity to make sure the back was clean to my standard. I'm glad that it's less cluttered. I need to go through the fridges tomorrow, though.

Do people need to be taught to clean? I wonder. Must I spell it out for them: this is dirty, this is dirty, this is dirty. Yet someone barely notice that they've spilled something on their station---if they can't notice their station is dirty, how the hell are they supposed to recognize other parts of the kitchen are dirty? I learned to clean the kitchen by looking around, noticing what was dirty, and trying to clean it. If one thing didn't work, I'd try another, and if that didn't work, I'd move onto something else. Some stains became permanent, but more can be tidied than the others realize. At least I'm satisfied with what I could clean today. I saw the difference.

I'm at peace. I made significant progress in the diamond gem painting. Easy part is all set; try to knock out the hard part within the next few days. I want to be done with it. Honestly, I want to spend Sunday on it. I could knock it out. I concentrate on the satisfaction: I started it last month; I would experience the joy of it being done. I could see it on my wall. I'd not feel guilty for buying a new craft kit.

20251228

I start by reviewing the day. I laid in bed for a few hours and finished reading Ultramarine, by Mariette Navarro. I made the batter for the first batch of caneles (used "iced lemon loaf tea" by TAZO). I looked at recipes for using up egg whites and vowed to make coconut macaroons. I left for Walgreens, to deposit cash, and then for Target, to pick up some hygiene products. I purchased hand soap, toothbrushes, pads, an energy drink, boxed mac 'n cheese, tea, and a planner. The planner was an impulse buy. I will use it, though, as my bullet journal attempts continue to fail me. I do not need a customizable bullet journal. I need something where every week has already been designed; where I can flip ahead and make plans multiple weeks in advance. I want my life laid out for me in an organized manner. This is the vessel which I have chosen. I nearly bought string lights for my room---Christmas decor which had gone on sale. I put them back when I contemplated logistics. Where would I put them? Did I want them taped up year round? I want another light source in my room, or so I thought, and then I think maybe not. I couldn't find shredded coconut. I couldn't find inexpensive bar soap either---all they sold was large packs of Dove. Strange that my small grocery store has more options for a better price. Then again, people seem to prefer body wash to a soap bar. I'm just built differently...

I looked for a face mask. All of the glow up ladies on Youtube use them. They use them to make themselves look/feel better. They seem so happy about it. I wondered if a face mask could evoke the same emotions. I couldn't find them. I found acne patches, but no sign of face masks. I looked for lip gloss and mascara, too, thinking these might help me look nice. Their cheapest lip gloss only had one color available; the pink was too bright. I made a mental note of the brand and found it on Amazon in a more suitable color. Maybe I'll buy it next time. The mascara options overwhelmed me---so many different products promising so many different things. Do I want what they're selling? I want to look pretty. I wonder if I could look pretty. I wonder if I could be desirable; wha would being desired feel llike? I can't imagine a guy vying for my attention. That's not something that happens to me anyways.

I returned home. Dinner became brussels sprouts, chicken, and mac 'n cheese. This was the first time I'd had brussels sprouts. I tasted them raw; they reminded me of broccoli. I baked/roasted them alongside the chicken, which imparted a lovely flavor. I like them. I made the batter for two more batches of caneles. One was with pandan leaves; the milk will expire in two days, so I wanted to use it up. The third batch was made with some smokey vanilla tea (I'm blanking on the name) and nonfat milk. I have 2lb of powdered nonfat milk and wanted to compare the difference in results. My instinct is to think that I'll need to increase the amount of butter to make up for the lack of fat, but I need to wait to experiment. I think about how I'll spend a little over three hours baking tomorrow night. I hope it's worth it.

Afterwords, I watched Dogma. This movie was about two angels who were cast out of Heaven and may have found a loophole to get back into Heaven. However, their actions would have consequences. Most of the movie is ponderings on religion, how humans have misconstrued religion, and so on. Many references to Catholic theology and the Bible. The humor was enjoyable; the dirty jokes add a bit of levity that distracts from the seriousness of the situation. The man who lives downstairs just exclaimed something. It is nearly midnight. Please stay quiet.

I thought I might have more to say. I think about work grudges and poorly constructed to-do lists. I think about a new hire. I think about the way my head itches; I need to cut my hair again. I feel my brain disconnecting from my fingers. My eyes are closed and my fingers march of their own accord. What will they say? How will they say it? I notice the onset fatigue which dissassembles my body. Shall I lay down? I start to discover I have no choice. I am laying down, have been for a while now. I'm nearly flat. My head is proppedup on a pillow, the compouter just South of my stomach, and my body flat against the blanket on the floor. I am slightly cold. I want to hide under the blanket.

Instead, I push myself to think about sex and desire. I think I want sex, and then I wonder if I'm only lonely. I should stop writing there. I think: I am so pathetically, desperately single that I'd fuck anything that comes my way, as long as it's a gentleman, bonus points if its ---. I must go now.

20251230

It is morning. Nearly 10:30. I think that if I had more things I wanted to do, more desires at the top of my head, I'd have an easier time getting out of bed. I woke up and thought about things I dreaded: dealing with the third batch of damned caneles. I could've finished a movie by now. I am struggling to structure my time. I struggle to keep track of the things I want to do and the things I meant to do. The important tidbits---baking, usually---is stuck at the top of my head, but the rest has floated to the bottom of the abyss. What would it be like, I wonder, to want to get out of bed in the morning. I remember the upper body workout I was going to do.

In my desire to blame something else for my problems, I contemplate blocking Youtube for a month. Ahh, but workout videos! okay, so you download the few videos you use and move on with your life. Problem solved. People have been posting their glow up and new years and life changing videos---I wanted what it is they're selling, except I don't. They sell a life for their fellow glow-up creators. At this point, do I gain anything from watching them? I am not here for advice, I realize, I am here for entertainment. Even now, as I type, I long to open up Youtube and turn on a video----tell me how to glow up, tell me how to live my life, tell me how to be happy. I notice: as I write, I don't want to stop writing. Last night, I wanted to write before sleeping, but I fell asleep. When I turned off the lights, I didn't think: time for evening part two, phone edition; I thought I'd write on my phone, but as I laid on my side, I knew I'd sleep; it was morning in an instant. Did I remember my dreams? I may've known them when I woke up 3hr ago, but not now.

I think writing improves my sleep. No matter the time or energy, I can write until my eyes signal fatigue. This is a useful realization. Last night, I was working on the dot-gem painting. I am on the most annoying section. There aren't many patches of a particular color. That is to say, the colors are constantly changing. Tonight, I say, I'll rip off the plastic covering the final section. I'll pick a lettercolor and complete all of it. I'm eager to have it up on my wall. A piece of decor. My floor re-gained. I'll do watercolor again. My "desk" will be free again. Hoo-ray.

I was frustrated with work yesterday. When am I not. If not for the whole "both coworkers are trying to go on break at the same time" problem, I could've left half an hour early. The problem continued. Actually, I'm annoyed at how many obligations I feel like I have to my coworkers. It's dead. We're wasting time. Cleaning has already occurred, all prep is caught up, what's left to do but try to get rid of permanent stains. We've got nothing. I dread tonight; that two-hour window where there will be five of us vs. a complete and utter lack of tickets. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being overstaffed? My time is wasted.

I don't like the concept of morning person and night person. My sluggishness is erratic. I think: I want coffee. Bring on the bad habits. I tell myself I'll caffeinate before work. I think about the protein powder that I've been forgetting about. I have so few obligations to myself; how do I keep forgetting them? I want a paper on the wall. No. This won't do. I bought a planner on Sunday. I am trying to remind myself of its existence. It has been two days. Before I started to write, I told myself: write down three things you want to do today. I wrote down four---caneles, journal, workout, and read 10% of Omensetter's Luck, by William H. Gass. I wonder if I'll like the book. I read The Tunnel three or four times when I was younger. I can't remember why---something related to House of Leaves, though perhaps that was only because they are similarly dense. The Tunnel is depression in a nearly 700 page book. A mediocre man, obsessed with his history of Nazi Germany; procrastinating and revisiting his life exploits. How can a book with so many words have left such little an impression on me? Life in a chair. A very long character study. Mayhaps that's why I liked it. A very long character study.

I leave the window to look at reviews of The Tunnel. Why do we read difficult books? I think: these books are for the writer more than they are for the reader. It's not just a story---it's an expression, an idea. I play with words and contemplate what I could mean. Literature with a capital L has a different approach to itself than a plain book does. It's the professional vs the hobbyist vs the casual hobbyist. I think: these are different things, despite being in the same medium. Their audience is vastly different. Who is here to think about how they write, who is here to spend ten days reading a thoughtpiece and then think about it? A book designed for thinking vs one designed for reading; different levels of engagement. Different levels of commitment. Painting from your mind vs. following a tutorial. These things are not the same.

I've abandoned The Girls, by Emma Cline. I've reached a point where our oh-so-forgettable narrator was taken to the camp, the cult, wherever you may call it. She was aboard the bus. There was a mention of her being the sacrifice. I've lost interest. Her milquetoast life---is that the right word?---there is nothing to her, so she craves a something, except this something bores me. Her something will be a substitute for meaning. I am disinterested. A girl falls victim to a cult. I've read this before. Not this exact story, but close enough. I wanted to read; why am I bored? The Valley of Dolls bored me too. Watch their uninspired, selfish descents. Watch them pop pills to cope with life. I wonder if it's a novel that makes more sense as a movie. I think of them popping pills, Requiem of a Dream style, but they're not high, just knocked out. They're avoiding their lives and being a bit immature. I guess that could be what happens to big names. The alarm is about to go off. I do not want to get up. I don't want to clean the pan, to bake another batch, yet another experiment. I'm tired. I'm tired. I'll take more coffee. I think: I need something stronger. My something stronger---glow up, more food, it is a lifestyle thing and not a caffeine thing. I hear the wind knock over the trash barrels. What energizes me? This writing---the alarm is going off---is low-level, low-effort, a sort of stream of consciousness where I feel at one with myself. My thoughts are my words are my actions. There is no two-play here. I am not listening to a show while doing something. The music is slightly faster than the alarm's buzzing. Buzz--it's taking me over---buzz---beat beat---it's taking me over---buzz buzz. Saxophone. Now playing: Back In My Life, Chuck Love with Fourfeet. I need to get up and wash the pan and turn on the oven and get this out of the way. While it bakes, I'll exercise, then do dishes; mayhaps I'll write or work on the diamond gem painting. I've grown ill of it. I think about which section I'll upll off. I'm procrastinating. Time to move on.

20251231

An hour ago, I thought I was about to fall asleep. I was yawning. My eyes weren't staying open. I thought: hey, I'm going to go to sleep at a reasonable time. A desirable time, even. 9:43pm sounds like a good time to fall asleep. I turned of the lights and lay under the blankets; I felt as if I couldn't get to bed quickly enough. Yet, after a few minutes, I noticed that I was still awake. I look at the time now---did I nap? It's a genuine possibility. I wonder if I spent the past 1.25hr fading in and out of consciousness. I know what an hour of doomthinking feels like; that was not it. I'm alert, too. Strange.

NYE shift was frustrating. Everything went smoothly until 6pm. We close at 7pm, but we didn't finish all of the tickets until 7:20pm, which says enough. Same mistake happened twice in the past hour. I really wanted to scream. I could see something was wrong, I checked with --- and he said no; I thought I'd just lost track. Surely, he's right. I could've been more thorough. Then again, he made the same ticket-switching mistake TWICE in the span of one hour. Thrice in 1.5hr, but I caught it once. Argh. Argh. Argh. We have one system in place, it's designed for a reason, yet our own IDIOCY prevents it from working. We're so confident that what we have works until it doesn't, at which point we think it can't go wrong, and when it does, taking the time to figure out what went wrong is a challenging, time consuming necessity. ARGH. ARGH. ARGH. WHY DID THAT FUCKING HAPPEN. There was a miscommunication, there is a pattern in where the mistake happened. Except the solution is to not make the mistake. The process was fine. Just don't make the fucking mistake.

*breathe* on the other hand, we've had worse problems---and more food waste---on poorly handled Friday nights. The difference was the volume of tickets / the degree to which the mistake put a stop to our operations. 80 orders in an hour is a completely different beast; takes more time to recover from than a 15-20 ticket hour, that's for sure. That was a lot of tickets...I wonder if we should've pushed for a slightly later (ex. 7:15) pickup time, just to give ourselves leeway. I hope they stick to <15 per quarter hour in the future---all this "we can technically" do it is bullshit. Even with no mistakes, it's just not possible. Six fryer baskets = six order per five min = 18 order per 15min. I'm removing most of the information. Point is, we can't fit 25 orders in 15min without doubling up, but yadayadayadayadayada.

FoH needs to stop marking up BoH tickets. Said this last week, definitely didn't get the point across. This wasn't a problem last year. One of them also kept taking our copy of the ticket when he didn't need to. boss1 ran into this and was a little aggressive about it---the rest of us saying something didn't get through to him, so maybe that'll do the trick. For whenever next time is.

Fatigue creeps over me again. Did I just need to write out my frustrations? It's a likely solution. Write it out. Write it allllll out.

My brain runs in eight directions. What do I want to focus on this month? Pull-up. Watercolors. Pick a goal for each area, is that it? For health/fitness, my goal is to continue working on my ability to do a pull-up by a) spending time on the pull-up bar every day and b) doing back workouts at least 4x/wk. For hobbies, my goal is to continue doing watercolor until I run out of paint/paper (whichever happens first). I will continue to paint watercolor birds; once bored, I may sign up for skillshare and try a watercolor class. After that, I'll move onto whittling or embroidery, whichever seems more interesting at the time. I'd like to try r/52weeksofbaking. I will also keep playing with caneles. Oh, and keep reading. For finances, I want to be on-track to pay off loanservicer in March. What other areas of life exist. Career? Keep doing more prep. Mental health? Keep writing (more). Relationships? ( have none).

I did manage to finish the diamond gem painting this morning. Hooray. I feel no satisfaction. I'm glad it's over. I'm glad I can move onto something else. I'm hoping to do a watercolor chickadee tomorrow. Oh, and keep reading Omensetter's Luck. I need to do a batch of canele with double-butter and modified cooktime. Maybe that'll wait until next week. I do still want to make marshmallows. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow. I could do a proper long workout. I could stare at my planner and pretend it'll make me happy. I want to plan to go into Boston sometime this month. There's a tea place I want to visit. I also want to try some Southern or Cajun food---or Italian, or something else that's interesting that coworker1 recommends. Maybe there's an interesting museum or thing I can go to.

20260101

Damn. 'Tis a new year. After writing that sentence, I opened up Canva and created a vision board. This was mostly because my computer's wallpaper annoyed me. I figured: why not listen to the Youtube girlies and make a vision board? I spent time looking through pinterest, which was very annoying. Many photos looked AI-generated or outright said that there was AI usage. I was looking for photos of women with the physique I want, so finding unrealistic, unobtainable photos of AI ladies is not useful. I want to see a body I can have, not some nice-looking impossibility. After I found two ascceptable photos of muscular women, I found photos of healthy meals. Then I added a picture of a bookshelf, for good measure. As I write this, I thin about how much more detailed I could have made my vision board. I could've included something financial---something referencing a lack of debt or an abundance of money. Something that referenced a different hobby I want to try. I slap my wrist, so to speak. My goal was to have a computer background that didn't irritate me. I have fixed that. I do not need a perfect vision board. I only need a reminder of my current goals. I neeed to remember to buy painkillers. I've been strapped by a headache all afternoon, now evening, and it's not helping. I'm tuning it out as best I can, but I'm just laying in bed at this point. I read a bit and cooked dinner and kept my room tidy. Now, I'm typing. There isn't much else to say. Damn you, shoulder/neck pain in the left side of my head. Could you please just go away? THat plus alll of the head pain is aggravating. I wish that, if I pressed down on my eyebrows hard enough, the pain would disappear. It doesn't. I must carry on until I'm tired and can sleep away the headache. I wonder how long it will take. I like to delude myself into thinking that I just need to stretch and exercise a little bit more, and then the headache will vanish. Life doesn not work this way. I obercve my hands feeling colder. I am typing with my head under a blanket. I am not looking at my screen at all. Another slight discomfort distracts me. I give up. I just want to sleep.

20260103

Did I fail to write yesterday? How shameful. What I did after work---mild grocery shopping, reading, binging on a show, dishes. Can it be called a binge if I only watched three episodes? I wonder. No, I spent more time trying to sleep. I thought I wrote. Perhaps I only did so in audio. Five minutes before I need to leave---very well.

I think I want --- to slap me, to bite me, to hurt me (but not, must add, in a weird way). I want to be hurt. There is nobody inflicting violence, physical or mental, on me. I think I crave the pain. Please give me pain. Please hurt me. My brain is broken. Well... it's okay, ---. You can call me weird. I won't be offended. Fuck, I don't want to go to work. I want to grab a coffee beforehand. No, down the cold brew good girl. How easy it can be to part with money. You're so cute. Such a gentleman. Say it. Say I'm weird. Tell me the things we're both thinking---that you imply but I dare say. Cross a line. I dare you.

Tssk tssk tssk. Maybe I enjoy walking this line---there's nothing there, but I can play this one-sided game. I wonder if I'm wearing a mask. Am I playing a character? I hide my non-intentions and entertain ourselves. Maybe the playfulness masks a true longing, a proper need; I want something from you that I can't have, that neither of us want in a sense, so we'll play at having it. A one-sided game. WEll, there's the alarm. I must run to work. Two alarms. How funny.

later. Now what's left to say. The day was boring. boss1 emphasized how I need to get comfortable with training people. This is the goal, he says. I think of how I've been criticized: everybody knows what they're doing, a hands-off approach is best, just watch them and trust them. You don't need to say anything. You don't need to make any corrections. I think this is changing. Am I allowed to tell someone something is wrong? Am I allowed to point out a better way of doing something? I'll let someone know if they do something drastically wrong now---nobody will get upset if I tell them they mixed up fish sauce and soy sauce. Heh, the kitchen is now mentally stable...people have room to improve and can improve without mental breakdowns being a problem. I want to live some sort of life. I think about going out tomorrow so that I live. Perhaps I'll visit the bookstore and the coffeeshop. I think of visiting the city, then I think about the additional costs. I think of other things I want to spend my money on. Very well. I don't know how to live a life. I believe transportation plays into this---I think that if I had a car, I'd go places. Would I? Or would I be calculating the gas bill, the expenses, paying all the fees for having a car but never using the car because all I earn is minwage?

I took out the trash and recycling and am airing out the kitchen. Is sitting in the corner of a coffee shop actually living life? Is looking at the prices of books and putting them back on the shelf living? What a quaint definition. What do the kids my age do---socialize. They have friends. They study with their friends, get food with their friends, and go clubbing with their friends. I have none of this.

I don't want to keep writing. I'm ready to wrap myself up in daydreams. I'm lonely and I want to hold someone. I want a physical presence, something to stabilize me, to remind me I'm real and not crazy. I game for a bit, but it's a distraction. I get nowhere. I find frustration. I spent so much time on this game two months ago, but I think I've exhausted the good bits. I see another game on sale, contemplate buying it, and know I won't. Peaceful delusions. Maybe it's time to make this public. I think I want to be seen, or be exposed. Maybe you understand the difference.

I bother myself. I think I want to lose shape. I'm laying on the floor and wavering. I'm always on the floor. If I bought a desk, would I use it? I rotate to my side. I'm not tired. I remove my headphones and close my eyes. The thrum of noise---echo of a stereo---bothers me, so I insert my earplugs. What will I do tomorrow. I painted some today and it felt good. A voice in my head says I should write fiction. There is no story to tell. I thought of calling a guy I once knew. I ghosted him. A part of me thought it was the right choice, a part of me was scared of someone knowing me, a part of me was scared by our relationship. What was our relationship? There were moments when I thought he might be a friend. There were moments when I thought I might've been attracted to him. There were moments where I was overcome with fear, ready for him to behave like another man I once knew; how I was waiting for him to threaten me, to choose to hurt me, to lash out and block me and cut me off, to call me a whore and a cunt and demand I do things I didn't want to do. Maybe I was embarrassed to speak to someone so in-contact with reality; I can't expose my descent into unreality, my desire for this strange storytelling and nothingness. See, other people have academic pursuits. Other people can talk about common---shared---facts. What have I? My life, my lack of life.

I am unreal. I've dissociated from reality so thoroughly. Little of consequence passes through me. I tlh I think of myself. Do I want to be hurt, or do I not understand how to exist in a dynamic where I'm not being hurt? I want --- to hit me so I can feel like myself. Without pain, I have no concrete thing to escape from. I'm not running from someone else. The only thing I'm running from is my life. Yet someone else can devour anime after tv show after game and seem so full of life. I vow to play the game, to purchase it, if only to enter into another commmon, here l meaning shared, experience. My fingers jitter. What to do, what to do. Who to be. I thiln I think I'll read. I'm not proofreading this; my eyes are closed as I type; I wonder what's here that's not meant to be here. Noise reverberates from downstairs and I am annoyed. Why can't you go home over break, like everybody else?

I don't understand why I want to speak to him. We've nothing in common. My reading habit would disappoint him. I'm making my way through Anaïs Nin's diaries at a snail's pace. Worse, I've nothing profound to say, no insights. What is there to say? Here's some nice quotes? I open up the app—I'm now typing on my phone—and pick from my selection.

he does not write with love but with anger, he writes to attack, to ridicule, to destroy. He is always against something.

This passage is about Henry Miller. I remember what little I read of Tropic of Cancer and think it apt. What else did I read of his—Quiet Days in Clichy, was it? I'm not opening up a browser, not risking the loss of train of thought. Perhaps the man I'm thinking of would turn this into commentary on male and female writing. He might argue anger as an expression of truth; a female's lack of anger being why she lies. Women don't understand what it means to care about something, he might say. No, that's not it. But he did rely on arguments comparing women to men, and explaining why men were superior to women. It's quite tiring. If he made fun of women, my refutations were met with him saying it was a joke; when I made fun of men, he'd criticize me for making generalizations, for painting the world in black and white; if I dared point out I was joking, I'd be further criticized. Right. Men see the world factually, and all women are whores. Men are creeps, but since women are too, men can't be criticized.

I remember an offhand comment I'd made about men's tendency to objectify women; he met it with saying women objectified men, so I am wrong for criticizing men for objectifying women. A general statement about men is met with not all men, but general statements about women are the truth. Stereotypes exist for a reason. And you, sir, are no different. Another depressed neet with a superiority complex. Thriving on malicious intent, hatred for the world, and self-fulfilling prophecies. "There's no way out" because you decided there wasn't one.

I'm sick of being reminded of you, sick of the way your habits still infiltrate my mind, sick of my own strange desire to speak to you. You said you were better off without me; I'd like proof of it. There were those coding things, that, what was it, pathfinder implementation; how you said you had stories to write. Did you do any of that? All of that? Your sparse updates to the Internet leave much up for interpretation. There was a moment where I thought that you'd killed yourself; it was my fault for not saving you.

I shouldn't email. I won't. There's nothing to say, after all, other than to utter my selfish interest in what's happened to your life. I have nothing to offer. No worthwhile book recommendation, no useful information, and it's not like you ever wanted to speak to me anyways. Why did you string me along for so long? You made it clear that you were the one in control. I wish, no I don't. Fuck off. Please. This isn't healthy. I'm about to be harassed by the memories, but I brought that upon myself by writing about you.

I'd had a notebook where I listed every movie you mentioned. When I watched them, I wrote about them in that notebook. I kept track of the books you mentioned. I'd a file full of them. Every time we broke things off, I'd go back to that file and make it a mission to go through as many references as possible. I thought: if I just filled in the blanks, he'd like me. I didn't enjoy the process. My time felt wasted. I was disinterested in many of the films I tried watching and the books I tried reading.

I still don't like movies, by the way. The funny thing is that I occasionally watch movies which are mentioned by one of my coworkers. We don't have the same taste, but I look into the things he mentions because I want to know what he's talking about. It's funny how natural that filling in of blanks feels. I watch the thing, not as a homework assignment, but because I want to. He doesn't know this, because my lack of knowledge isn't a point of contention. I'm not being interrogated. Hell, I don't feel like I'm a bad person for not knowing the things he knows. You turned being cultured into a point of moral superiority, and my lack into a problem that needed to be addressed, a sign of my inferiority. Yet here, in my real life, I can look up things that people mention and fill in blanks if I so desire. Nobody is shitting on me for not knowing.

I want closure. I waited for you to email, like you said you would, but you never did. You would boast about how much better you were than me, so I'm left to wonder why you even entertained our relationship in the first place. If you're so high and mighty, so knowledgeable of all outcomes, why string along a teenage girl who's a decade younger than you? That's not painting you in a good light, I know, but the entire situation was bad to begin with. I shouldn't have engaged with you. But you'd boast about your maturity, your knowledge, your superiority—why did you still entertain a bad decision? If you genuinely knew better, how could you do what you did?

I hate how much I miss it. I always thought that if I just did enough, if I read the right things and said the right words and responded to everything quickly enough, that I'd be enough for you. Trying to be good enough gave my life a sort of fucked up purpose. Now what do I have.

20260104

Feels like I'm on vacation. I love not closing on Saturdays. Peace is mine. Whatever hint of an illness I had has passed---maybe drinking all that cranberry juice was effective. Or irrelevant. Either way, the soreness in my throat has vanished. How did I spend today. I found a piece of wood in the basement which was a good size for a small desk. I re-arranged the boxes to make temporary legs. I'm surprised the desk is level. I'll collect a few more boxes from work so that I can make the desk my preferred height. Still, I'm happy. I have the desk I was craving and I didn't have to spend a dollar. Even better, it's easy to disassemble, so it won't be a problem for moving. I liked eating dinner at it. I'm going to show coworker1 a picture of it and gauge his reaction. Genius or depressing?

After sitting at my desk for a few hours, sitting on the floor feels relaxing. I can stretch out my legs. Oh, what is there to say. I did manage to drag myself out of the house and to the coffeeshop. I can't remember the last time I sat in a coffeeshop for an extended period of time---five or six months, I realize. Peaceful house. I enjoyed sampling the atmosphere and eyeing the flyers for local goings-on. Not much in the winter, but still a reminder for things I can look into. I think my brain appreciated being in a different environment. The brief change in scenery is refreshing. I journalled and read for a bit, then headed home. The sidewalks weren't too icy today. There's a new weirdo stationed outside a convenience store I usually walk by. Gotta remember to stay off his side of the street when heading out.

I feel empty, or satisfied. I don't see a difference. I created the new Neoshitties account. I'm reluctant to upload. Who'll see? Will anyone see? Inevitable: how long until I ghost the internet again? I don't want to be dragged into explaining myself to others. Yes, my actions appear irrational. I am subject to whim. Read or ignore; don't like don't read. Argh. I hate this burst of reality. Let me drag myself out.

Pitter patter pitter patter / goes the rhythm / of the falling rain. I like the sight of a small kitten crawling on his arm, even onto his shoulder, nuzzling him. So cute. I want to shove --- into the broth at hotpot. Oh, what a satisfying mental image, consequences be damned! My room feels tidy and peaceful. What do I want from this week? Constant creativity. I must write more. I must return to fiction. One line a day was abandoned. There is still a demon I've failed to exorcise. And yet---anxiety. I know where it came from. To conquer it, the demon must be excised---they're tied to each other, and to me, but I will make it happen. Tomorrow. How to start---in the middle, the end, the beginning doesn't matter. Write how you used to, even though as a different person. Recall who you were and why. If you've done it before, you can do it again.

I don't believe my words. I feel as if I must write 'til I'm tired, but I want to read. I'm ready to close the computer and put in earplugs and curl up (literal) with a book (via phone). Oh dear. Well, farewell for now.