my preoccupation (or full-blown obsession, if you prefer) with reworking my wardrobe with silk anything and everything is, to be redundant, consuming. as i scavange and lay in wait, something like terror gives me pause. am i commiting some faux-pas such as autoasphixia?

i can't close my clothes drawer. i don't know how my husband keeps it so mum.

i have been on a caloric binge. new mexican food, ice cream, garlic bread, doughnuts. if i had issues with weight i might puke this shit all back up, but god built me in the image of a stick, so i just wonder if i should consume more fish to reach some sort of (imagined) equilibrium.

i've renewed (like a vehicle registration) my curiousity with perfume. i am impulsively tempted to snap some up--not in character at all. i read, quest, sniff, squirrel, sniff, sniff, perhaps spend. in all aspects of my life excluding sex, i regret impulses i thoughtlessly act on. i crave control and rectitude.

listening to angles tricks me into reliving weeks at work i usually try to forget. truth be told, that was perhaps the most fun i had in that phase of my life. just extraordinarily chocked full of other's people drama. maybe i just mean chocked full of other people who cared about me.

waffling on what to next read, i pulled elements of style off the shelf. yup: stolen from high school.

i'd rather have more cats than have children. i suppose time could change my mind, but i think i would probably just feel guilty for adding to my already-considerable carbon footprint.