Without the dips and jumps, a journey is then the definition of flatlined death.
Sweet 16 wasn’t so sweet after all.
I binged. I got cocky with my quotes, myself, and then I binged. I won’t be trying to make some emotional excuse as there is none. And I won’t allow myself to ever validate such excuses. I had a choice. I made the choice to order the food. I then ate the food.
I did not attempt to make the hard choice of telling my thoughts to shut the fuck up.
So when I woke up, heartburned (the act of having a severe heartburn) and dry mouthed, like a hangover without the headache, I had to resist another urge: self abomination.
It was easier to keep hiding in bed, even after spending 12 hours in it, than to get up, get dressed, and go to the gym.
But slapped my thoughts on the wrist. Just like I did yesterday and the day before, and the day before that, I got up, got dressed and put my shoes on.
I went to the gym, still bloated from yesterday, and I got on the treadmill. I got my gym in, and now I’m about to get my postaday out.
Categories: The Journal