One Wednesday night in January

I’m writing with the smell of tai chi oil and a familiar ache all over my body. My legs, unwaxed and so unladylike, stretch out like noodles. My arms are happily free of red spots for once, and heaven forbid the rashes return tomorrow; Benadryl is not a driver’s best friend. For a long time sweat seemed to be a foreign concept to my body, but now I believe I’m coping fairly well.

I feel like I’m drunk. The lamp on my left emits this slightly yellow glow, like a lone street light in a dark alley. An alley that does not belong anywhere near here because most street lights don’t even work. Here’s one more reason to curse the government for not using my taxes to fill holes with more cement light up small streets. Anyway, there really is no point to this story. There is no story. So you can go ahead and skip reading this. If you are still reading this, dude, sleep, or get yourself a pan of New York-style pizza, or leave a comment so I know you’re here, lol.

Around this time last year I was constantly painting in a sketchbook that felt more like blotting paper. I used the most expensive brush in my arsenal and Healer’s face as my muse. And I started to watch a show about weightlifters and swimmers that unexpectedly left such a warm permanent glow in my life.

These days I’m writing a lot at night. More than usual, at least. Not stories, but in a journal. There’s a famous person who said we are to write to know what we are thinking, and what we are not thinking. That applies here, although to be honest even I don’t always understand what I think. Buuut they (and by they I mean the internet) say people who keep journals are more likely to be happy. That’s nice, but I’m sure I belong in the minority for now.

I cleaned my palette last week, but I have not opened my sketchbook in months. It was New Year’s Day on a Monday and a blink later somehow we’re now halfway through the month. *gasp* How time flies. You know, I think I will never ever get used to it either.