I have spent this whole entire day trying to thing of SOMEthing about which to blog. Eating Magic Cookies, though enjoyable to me physically and personally, doesn’t lead to anything worthy of inscription on the InterWeb; rather, it makes me a lazy fuck who has torn through one and a half seasons of The Office and the leftovers of the Easter smorgasbord. (Say what you will about cokeheads, but at least when they sit around indulging they’re doing something productive, like washing the dishes or organizing the sock drawer.) I’ve also picked up a penchant for collage and decoupage, simply to have something to do with my hands, which has resulted in me covering the unused shelves of my bookcase with postcards and 8×11 paper on which I pasted the form of a large X that I cut out of a magazine.



I don’t mean to insinuate that I’ve been rolling on my bed with bits of glue and glitter stuck to my body, moaning about missing Mexico with Pineapple Express on repeat. I’ve managed to get employed, secure an interview for a summer ESL program downtown, and re-enroll in grad school for the fall semester. I’ve read about six books and watched intellectual films (in between hours and hours of reality TV but still). I’ve also reopened my Peace Corps application, attained a trial subscription to a health club, dehoarded my closet, and figured out seven different ways to wear my new, blond pixie cut. My external self has been productive. I, on the other hand, have no idea who the fuck is doing these things, what the point of these things even are. I see myself looking at iPads online and wanting one, yet at the same time I’m perusing luggage websites and envisioning myself traipsing around with nothing more than a handbag. I want to get a nice one bedroom uptown so I can go to grad school in a comfortable and proactive way, but I also want to go to New Zealand and work on a beach bar. Every time I start to think I end up online with websites full of Flee possibilities, yet then I think of the aimless wanderers and the horror of the aged hostel-goer and I want that MFA. I’m lost, yo.

Being lost is obviously facilitated by the utter lack of schedule in my life, a predicament that will hopefully be eradicated tomorrow when I have a more structured day-to-day life. However, there just seems to be a vast and evil chasm between now, the beginning of April, and what can truly be called summer to someone who’s been living in Mexico. I don’t care how many people shove the Uggs to the back of the closet and whipout the tanning oil, in my world it’s fucking freezing here. It’s the kind of weather that’s worse than winter, because when you gaze out the sun-filled window in the morning the day looks promising, yet when you step outside the wind nips like a bitchy cat and your mascara stars tearing up and the tee shirt is a good idea for five minutes. I can entertain myself for years if I can go outside,but being relegated to a twin bed shivering under the covers leaves little choice regarding activities.

I won’t even begin to lament the situation in my romantic life. Suffice it to say that a person who’s used to getting laid and who adheres to a diet based on sexercise will obviously lose the lithe figure as soon as said intercourse is removed from the daily regime. I’m not getting laid so I’m getting lard; additionally, I’m overcompensating for the lack of sexual pleasure by ODing on oral, as in eating everything I can get my grubby, pudgy mitts around. Though the nebulousness of my and Homeboy’s relationship seemed so sophisticated as I popped those giant sunglasses down in Benito Juarez, it seems that I’m going to have to have a more concrete chat, as I’m very confused and taking it out on the cheese drawer. Point being, in lieu of all this, I and a fabulous partner in crime have decided to take our health into our own hands and will be healthifying ourselves up before Memorial Day. Exciting stuff. Juices and shit.

So here’s to new beginnings, new chapters, and new flat abs. And the stupid cookies, for getting me through the first few weeks back.


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