Reset Thirty-Nine, Day Eighteen
Mar. 23rd, 2022 12:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphBoy did I eat bad Tuesday. Or do I mean badly? Maybe I mean foolishly. Anyway, I waited too long to fix dinner and ended up too hungry to cook, so I microwaved a frozen tamale because my blood sugar had crashed, and then because that wasn't enough I later heaped a bunch of sour cream on some leftover barbecue flavor crisps and downed a second can of beer with that.
Now I'm sort of still hungry but also sort of sick, and at this late hour and in that condition I certainly don't want to fix the dinner I'd originally planned, so I'm trying to think of something else to eat that wouldn't make me even sicker and wouldn't require more beer. Despite good intentions, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll end up eating an ice cream sandwich, because that thought keeps popping into my mind, and I have very poor judgement. But at least I wouldn't drink beer with it. Maybe just a shot of brandy.
But Tuesday, the hottest day of the current heat wave, was an opportunity I suspect I mostly wasted, though I don't remember much of it clearly. For the last half hour I've been wondering if I brought in my wheelie bin after the trash was picked up. I intended to fetch it when I went to check the mailbox, but I don't think I did, and I can't even recall for sure if I looked out at the street to see if the bin was even still there. Sometimes one of the other tenants will bring it in, but I have this faint image of looking out and seeing the bin there and then looing in the mail box and finding nothing and simply forgetting the bin and going back without it. I'm just not sure. So distracted anymore.
So the day went by, balmy and breezy, and evening brought its waning moon, and the birds fell silent and the traffic died down and the breeze turned softer. Now there is a scent in the cool late night air I can't quite place. It is citrusy, and mingles with the earthiness of soil left slightly damp by the recent showers and the smell of grass from a lawn somewhere on the other side of the bike path that was mowed last evening, and it's almost as though the town doesn't exist anymore— only some mysterious hidden garden I'll never see but will imagine as I fall asleep, and perhaps dream about in dreams too pure to recall.
Now I'm sort of still hungry but also sort of sick, and at this late hour and in that condition I certainly don't want to fix the dinner I'd originally planned, so I'm trying to think of something else to eat that wouldn't make me even sicker and wouldn't require more beer. Despite good intentions, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll end up eating an ice cream sandwich, because that thought keeps popping into my mind, and I have very poor judgement. But at least I wouldn't drink beer with it. Maybe just a shot of brandy.
But Tuesday, the hottest day of the current heat wave, was an opportunity I suspect I mostly wasted, though I don't remember much of it clearly. For the last half hour I've been wondering if I brought in my wheelie bin after the trash was picked up. I intended to fetch it when I went to check the mailbox, but I don't think I did, and I can't even recall for sure if I looked out at the street to see if the bin was even still there. Sometimes one of the other tenants will bring it in, but I have this faint image of looking out and seeing the bin there and then looing in the mail box and finding nothing and simply forgetting the bin and going back without it. I'm just not sure. So distracted anymore.
So the day went by, balmy and breezy, and evening brought its waning moon, and the birds fell silent and the traffic died down and the breeze turned softer. Now there is a scent in the cool late night air I can't quite place. It is citrusy, and mingles with the earthiness of soil left slightly damp by the recent showers and the smell of grass from a lawn somewhere on the other side of the bike path that was mowed last evening, and it's almost as though the town doesn't exist anymore— only some mysterious hidden garden I'll never see but will imagine as I fall asleep, and perhaps dream about in dreams too pure to recall.
