having a holiday dedicated solely to food and football is what makes us american. probably.

i cannot speak to anyone. i cannot leave my bed. 


i threw up too much pumpkin this morning to be reasonable. pumpkin butter, pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin pie ice cream. swirls of orange and a fuck of a headache after. well, it's all right. self-sabotage clears the expectations and then there's just the freedom to do whatever. to lie in bed all day watching Lost or stumbling around the kitchen or sitting in front of the heater trying to make my head stop spinning. 


the calls of crows outside closed curtains has always been calming to me. 


i'm trying to remember why i was so concerned about this holiday. self-sabotage clears that too. 


i have to say i'm actually having a rather nice day. despite everything. it's one of those fucked up times i'll remember later with a sad, impressed nostalgia; it blossoms in retrospect. cozy nest-bed and blankets and heater and my brain numb and slow and i'm just enjoying existing within this time and space regardless of how one ought to spend thanksgiving. 


i, personally, would like to be thankful for the fact that despite continual self-destruction, i am still alive. pity that next to no one can appreciate the magnitude. 

i'm trying to learn to focus my memory, catch moments of dead leaves on the ground or my breath in the air, the smell of cinnamon and spice in someone's kitchen and inflate and suffuse those into what i'll remember of today. it's a tricky business in LA where the november sun is strong and bright and the trees remain waxy green but i'm doing my best. 


i just want to feel autumn so completely that i do not need to eat to compensate.