A Writer’s (Sort of) Stream-of-Consciousness

Good morning (what’s so good about it?). I didn’t have a drop to drink yesterday. In fact, I rarely drink at all anymore. Yet, I still feel like I got loaded last night. I’m nauseous, I’ve got a headache, everything seems oppressively loud and bright.

I got on the scale this morning, and of course I’m unhappy with the number. What did I expect, though? I didn’t bother tracking all week and I ate like a horse.

It went on fast, it’ll come off fast. If I behave myself this week.

Nevertheless, I’ve got a couple more NSVs this morning. My size 12 jeans that I ordered a month ago are quite loose, to the point where I need a belt.

Yes, I disclosed my pants size. Why not? Size 12 is a great size and important milestone for me. I was like a 20 in May. I was prepared to tell you that size 12 is the national average for women’s pants size, as noted by Tina Fey in Bossypants, but that was in the 1990s.

However, I looked into it, and, unbeknownst to me until about 52 seconds ago, size 12 pants are now actually three or four sizes below the national average, which is an 18/20.

Of course, I am only 5’1. Average women’s height is 5’4. I am still at least 20 pounds over a healthy weight for my height. But that doesn’t sound like such a big deal to me. I’ve got this.

Anyway, I found an old belt randomly lying on my bedroom floor, and when I put it on, it was way too big (I had been buying men’s belts at my heaviest). Today, I am pretty much a foot away from even the tightest notch.

It shouldn’t be too long before those 10s fit. Then, finally…the 8s—dance of joy!

For you young whipper-snappers who don’t know what the Dance of Joy is, it comes from a very funny 1980s sitcom, Perfect Strangers, that you should check out sometime if it’s on Netflix or Hulu or whatever.

I did the dance of joy once in college with Curtis, the 5th floor RA (resident assistant) in my freshman-year dorm, complete with jumping into his arms at its conclusion. And, yes, at that time in my life, I was little enough to jump into someone’s arms without severely injuring them.

Curtis the Flirtis, we called him.

Yup, even then, I was somehow an extrovert magnet.

I really do veer miles off topic, don’t I. Since I started blogging daily and more casually, I’ve noticed it.

In spite of this, I’ve never had a problem constructing an organized, well-structured and cohesive piece of writing that remains on topic throughout. In fact, I’ve always been quite good at it. Writing is a relative strength for me, or I probably wouldn’t be doing it. If you look at my earlier blog posts, you’ll find plenty of evidence of my ability to construct a concise, unified work.

But the more informal and conversational I become in my writing, the more my mind wanders. I suppose this is probably natural. This is more like free writing, journaling.

This blog began as a kind of retrospective project, chronicling my childhood to my extended adolescence (“extended adolescence” is how I often describe my and many others’ undergrad college life experience). Once I hit the present, though, the project kind of unraveled, and here I am, basically reveling in free association.

But journaling seems to just be where I’m at right now, so I guess it’s all good. I’ll use the blog the way I need to. And people who don’t like it can go screw.

And—bonus—a lot of people, for whatever reason, actually do seem to enjoy this unstructured approach to writing, as evidenced by the likes.

In deed, I journaled copiously throughout my childhood and young adulthood. It was so many things for me, growing up in a broken home with a troubled parent. My grandmother’s advice about Mom’s mental illness: “Tell no one.” So I didn’t. I told my diaries. The years I had no friends, I still had my diaries.

Later, my journals became a hub for my research into the behavior patterns and mating rituals of the opposite sex.

I still have maybe 10 of them, from my younger days. As I got older, and the repression resulting from my self-imposed, painstakingly preserved virginity began to wear on me, my writing became increasingly graphic. Rereading it embarrassed me enough to literally shred up those years.

In retrospect, I kind of regret having done that, because I feel like I deleted a part of my past that made me uncomfortable to revisit, leaving my history abridged and incomplete. Edited.

On the other hand, I imagine poor Desmond stumbling upon some of my late high school/ early college journals and becoming permanently traumatized by what he reads, and I am very grateful they no longer exist.

I used to think I might publish my journals if I became famous. Having missed the mark on fortune and fame just a hair, I think instead I may eventually write a memoir and perhaps self-publish it. Just another one of my projects I committed to accomplishing that, one way or another, I intend to follow through on.

One thing that happened in 2021 that I’m thankful for is that, for better or worse, by hook or by crook, and even if it’s not in the way I expected, I am writing again.

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