Would You Just... Clean Out The Vegetable Drawer?

The light is gently draining out of the world, leaving a cool, calm May evening. I'm in my room listening to Tame Impala, trying to get this written before making a tea consisting of all the vegetables.

I felt low earlier today. Mild hangover after drinks for the leaving do of one of my closest friends from work, which there was no way I was missing, but I was about as sensible as I could be, drinking slowly, missing rounds and having water, going home at half one instead of like five in the morning. But still, I felt sleepy and depressed when I woke up -- when you drink constantly your dopamine and serotonin levels adjust to the increased release provided by alcohol, requiring more to activate, so drinking less or staying sober for a long time makes you feel bored, boring, shit, but that's just the reality you have to push through if you want to change your habits -- and but so I mooched in bed all morning, watched Jessica Jones on Netflix, napped, rolled around glum and misery-brained.

Finally I dragged myself up and through the shower, and into town. All bus journey I was bombarded with negative thoughts, doubts, anxieties. I tried to be mindful, distance myself by saying "I am aware that I am having the thought that... [whatever]", but the next moment I would just find myself caught up in more negativity, wrenched downwards into dark ruminations. I tried saying, "OK, that is OK, I am here having dark ruminations, feeling sick, stressed, mind racing, being disgusted with myself, with the gauche adverts outside, the decrepit passengers, the sprawling wretched mass of life globbing by, and that is OK, whatever is happening is OK" -- but it was tough. Felt like lies I was saying to myself, when everything was objectively obviously so bloody awful.

But gradually as I shopped the negativity dissipated. I bought new shoes -- because there's a point where you stop being someone attempting not to care about material possessions and flitter money away into the gaping maw of consumerism, and become just a man with holes in his shoes. And once that was done I bought some new tees and a zip-up hoody to replace the one I gave away to a homeless woman when I was drunk once like the gormless SJW I am -- but by the way, re that whole SJW thing, if you're going to be a warrior for something, then "social justice" is not something to be embarrassed about, and a far better cause than, like, "keeping feminism out of nerd hobbies" or "proving your superiority to everyone over the internet" or whatever the hell Milo Yiannopoulos and those pathetic Gamergate boys actually stand for. I mean, take a look at yourself. You're doing the propaganda work of the actual evil Empire, while mocking the Rebel Alliance for caring about something. You completely suck.

-- But, yeah, anyway. I did more bits and bobs in town, did some food shopping, got a coffee, read some of Oblivion on my phone (which stories are about the only DFW things I have left to finish) and I began to feel better.

Then I went home and washed up and cleaned out the vegetable drawers in the fridge, because there were sloppy liquefying Objects in the back there beginning to be less discrete items and more just a unified gelatinised mass of manifested shame -- so I binned the lot and scrubbed out the drawers and year-zeroed the new stuff promising to be more conscientious with eating vegetables while they're still in date and not wasting half of everything I buy, which promise I make about every two weeks.

Then I tidied my bedroom and hung up my new clothes and recycled the bags and shoe box and scrunched up tissue paper they push to the toes of new shoes to fill them out, and I took the bins out, especially the bag dripping vegetable waste, and put in new bin bags. Then I did some press-ups and bicep-curls -- I bought some weights one time in the hopes they might help assuage my deep sense of self-loathing, turns out though it's still remarkably easy to hate yourself while lifting heavy objects, but whatever, it's still fun sometimes -- and now I'm in my room listening to Tame Impala, trying to get this written before making a tea consisting of all the vegetables.

Which looping back to the words of my opening paragraph, except with those words now carrying additional meaning because of the context of cleaning out my fridge, is known as a circular narrative, similar to the kind employed in for example Inside Llewyn Davis or Pulp Fiction, and so if you think this post is bad then you're pretty much saying you hate both those films as well, which, fair enough, if you want to be that guy/girl, but common consensus and the weight of history is not on your side.

And now it really is tea time. Though it's quite late now, I might just have pizza instead.

Ta ra.