Today I listened to Fleet Foxes and Iron & Wine, I wrote in my journal and I ate Velveeta for lunch. The only thing I did that was remotely productive was cram seven pounds of pork shoulder into our little crock pot. (Yesterday I thought, Oh I'll be thrifty and adultish and get meat delivered in bulk to save money/cook dinners ahead of time. Turns out I have no fucking idea how much fourteen pounds of pork shoulder actually is. Or twenty pounds of chicken, or nine pounds of ground beef. Also I keep on telling myself I should cut meat out entirely anyway, so not sure why I spent over a hundred dollars on an entire farm's worth of dead animals from Costco.) Anyway, these are the days I took to myself before I start my new job on Monday and have to go back to earning an income and otherwise engaging in the market. I had every intention of walking along the water in something billowy and romantic and having cups of coffee in trendy places, but all I've actually done with this short time off is regress to teenagerhood.
I can't think of anything else to say because I'm mesmerized by the major pancake arm happening in the second picture. There was a time when that shit would have mortified me, but I didn't even notice it until just now. I guess the tiny wrinkles around my eyes are marks of wisdom, or indicators that I've run out of shits to give about things like fat upper arms. I've tried so many exercises (two and half, to be exact, and I already gave up because I don't care that much so don't bother suggesting any or you will go to jail for literally boring me to death) and I forgot where I was going with this sentence, to be perfectly honest. To be even more perfectly honest, I am supposed to be getting ready to leave the house right now. But the idea of dragging my chubby, chubby arms to St. Mark's is kind of grossing me out. However. I have a date. So. I suppose I'll paint some heart eyes on and get going.
