We Only Hurt The Ones We Are

I found myself reclining against a tree this morning, facing the bridge and the lake, watching the boats and cars speed through the band of sunlight bouncing off the water and etching my retinas when it occurred to me: my blog has sucked (more than ever) this whole year. I can't do anything about it now. I soldier on.

Recently I was presented with one of those days when I knew I was cashing in all that karma I'd been squirreling away, but I was firmly convinced it was worth every instance. I highly recommend this, if you can swing it. I feel Reborn In Our Lord Jesus Christ, minus the
In, Our, Lord, Jesus, and Christ. The emotional hangover is a bitch though.

I'm embarking on a small mental experiment. My task is to identify the one thing I want most in any given week and deny myself that one thing, and nothing else. The objective is not masochism so much as it is to discover if I can be honest enough with myself to identify what I truly want, even if it means being denied it. Just a few psychological biopsies to root out some leftover demons. I suppose it all falls under the umbrella of masochism. If anything, it's preemptive masochism, a fingernail scrape now to ward off the blade later. I haven't firmly committed the term "thing" to the intangible or material yet, though I'm leaning toward the former. The latter just seems shallow.

I really liked The Departed.

Listening To: Cat Power - Lived In Bars