I'm actually getting slightly anxious about my two year anniversary: two years of dorkdom. Two years of abstention. Two years of tedium. Of obsessive tendency. Of avoidance. Of sobriety.
I've found myself in the throws of increasingly valid and frequently meaningless thoughts. It feels good to actually be embedded into something less opaque, if that makes sense, like to just remember the blissful intensity of my pre-youth, the wanderings of my heretofore previously sober and non-drunk (though a little stoned self); to abscond into the rose colored glasses of nostalgia just a little bit, if only to avoid the depressing mechanistic quality of every day life in a big city with a lot of people and not that much nature or cleanliness. I desire not to internalize some sort of self-help induced grief and indulge whimsical fantasies that inculcate me against hope and possibility. I desire not to find a way into the grind. I desire not to be in the fold. I also desire it. Except a different fold. See?
I want to chose my insights, instead of having them chose me.
Alas, all is not calm and cool in the land. T-minus 7 days. And then I'll implode in aggressive fashion with the restraint releasing quality of a monk tied snugly with kevlar enforced mint- green garden hose that's been sitting full of pulsating froth, released at once unto blue slate sidewalk and instantaneously misted out of existence by the heat.
I've gone overboard here in a way that is precisely calculated to reveal something quickly, with the least pain possible.
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