Saturday Morning

Note to self. Look up the artwork of Martin Kippenberger. I was gawking at the latest Taschen catalog, (gawking because my eyes were bugged out in the desire to flip through every last one of the books in there) when I stumbled upon some paintings of his that look so damned familiar. Maybe I've seen them in a movie? I don't know. I'll let you know, dear reader, which is thus far myself and a little mystery guest who found this site only twenty minutes after it's birth, once I figure it out.

Yesterday we went to Trader Joe's. It's always a treat to find interesting things to snack on the day after. For breakfast I had vanilla yogurt, soft laughing cow cheese, a roll with butter on it and a glass of grapefruit juice. Evan is now snacking on a Lingonberry scone, which I would be snacking on too, had I not forgotten that we bought them, and filled myself up with cheese and bread. If this were any other day of the year, I would just go ahead and have the Lingonberry scone too. Because, you see, it has been brought to my attention that I am a compulsive overeater. BUT NO MORE! A year ago today I was the thinnest I have been in years. It is a sad fact that TODAY I am the FATTEST I have ever been in my life. I can't even look at myself in the mirror it is so bad. Oh hell, I don't want to turn this into a crybaby session about weight. Let's just say that starting today — today is important for purely anniversial reasons — there will be no more overeating, no more potato chips, no more stuffing my face in an effort not to face my fears, or whatever the hidden motivations might be. I don't exactly have a plan yet, which is probably a bad plan in itself, but I know what NOT to eat — pretty much everything I have eaten the last year. Okay, enough about that.

One year ago today, I woke up just before the sun rose and decided to walk south. I had spent the night underneath power pole 22, as I mentioned before, and was on a sort of adventure. For some reason, the events that happened to me on this day I sort of want to keep a secret. It was nothing concerning aliens, nothing drug-induced or too terribly spectacular, but I feel like it was a little gift for my viewing pleasure, and my words couldn't possibly do the experience justice. That, and I fear that once I put the words down on paper, the experience can just be summed up as "psychotic," which, GODDAMNIT, it wasn't.

Maybe I'll have the urge later tonight to tell the story. Right now, I just want to hop in the shower and take a walk or something.