IT'S PROBABLY JUST GAS

Stomach discomfort woke me up at five. Perhaps I should not have eaten what I did.

Secure in the knowledge that Easter meant a sunday off, I stayed up a little later than usual, and consumed food which, on second thought, may have been ill advised.
Sliced pork fried with chili peppers and Szechuan pickle, plus a drizzle of soy sauce, over noodles, and a small cheese omelette.
Followed by a bowl of ice cream.
And cookies.

Then more ice cream.

Symbolically, the ice cream (and cookies) probably stands in for the lack of a sex life or something. When something is lacking in your daily existence, like a sex life or something, as just one example, other things (like ice cream, or cookies) necessarily compensate. And yesterday evening, ice cream was the most exciting thing that happened to me.



It wasn't even very good ice cream.



Other men, faced with a similar lack of a sex life or something, might have gone out partying on Saturday night and, upon failing to meet the girl next door or whatever other person inhabited their dreams of either a normal suburban middle class future or immediate ill-advised intimacy with an intoxicated stranger, would've gotten drunk.
Riotously stinko drunk.

If you have visited this blog before, and read my waffle about pipe tobacco and Hong Kong style milk tea, you might be wondering, given that I have described both of those products in lyrical and sexually laden terms, and might be assumed to prefer them as a symbolic stand-in for a sex life or something, why did I not simply over-indulge in both or either?
Which would have been what you expected.

I likewise am wondering that.

It would have been sensible.


Something is missing in my life. Maybe the sense of repetition is starting to pall, maybe I should stop reading about how perfect everybody else is on Facebook, maybe I should take up bowling or canasta.

Today is a good day to avoid chocolate.

I should go back to bed.




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