she moves she

When I stress I tend to not eat.  My emotional brain is in my stomach and it won’t tolerate being satiated with digestives.  Though it loves the wine, red or white.

I’ve had zero days off of work in the last nine days and I have to move tomorrow.  Change apartments.  I cannot eat and I keep saying things like “booyah” and “sucka!” and calling people “brotha.” Possibly losing my mind.  There is a restlessness like churning lava running laps in my veins.  And listening to The Rolling Stones while contained inside a little box, while Chicago produces another unseasonably cold day is torturous.  Where do the excessive vibrations go?

In the last ten minutes I’ve adopted a new philosophy on life.  I’m going to worry about nothing from here to eternity.  Encased inside this day of blah and impending-move dread this approach seems completely possible.  I’ve always heard that whole Worrying Doesn’t Help thing and I’ve adopted it perhaps half way.  But today I feel the “I don’t give a shits” through and through.  It’s all going to happen anyway.  Somehow, whether I worry about it or not, I will end up in a new apartment by Wednesday evening.  I therefore cannot be justified in sitting here at work putting energy into worrying about an Absolute.

This philosophy of course is appropriate only for certain circumstances.  I certainly cannot live out my days not giving a damn about the State of Things.  Giving a damn breeds Passion, Passion breeds Action and I am a Child of Fire and Snow.

Whatever’s right.  Right?