Lyyyyfe

Last night Vanessa and I talked about optimism and cynicism. Through 4 am haze she held a hand to herself and summed our conversation with, "I think I'm too optimistic to know bad. And, well, you're a cynic." Never before have I been called a cynic. It was a bit of a blow to my self-morale and I can only hope that she, who uses words loosely, did not really mean it. But in the event that she did, what can I do to assuage this? I think seeking a method to turn my potentially newfound cynicism into a joke is, in itself, optimistic. For example: I acknowledge that sitting on my ass with a jar of peanut butter while thinking about exercising is not an effective weight-loss tactic. I've thought before, and think again of writing a book, potentially pathetic and certainly trashy, much in the style of Bridget Jones' Diary but with a higher sort of intelligence, maybe, grieving all of this. How many times has Candace Bushnell done that before?

It's shitty outside. I left the apartment once today, walked down the block to Dag's and paid a hospital bills worth for two bananas, coffee, OJ, and seltzer. To elevate the pathos, my back seized up while waiting in line so then I shuffled back here, where all day I have been alternating between napping, coffee, and shuffling through papers to simulate work-doing. So this is life a la today. I'm waiting for the spring and El Sombrero's margaritas on-the-go, believing life will start again when it's warmer. With a sigh, I can say that I don't have to purposefully look for ways to liken myself to the nursing home outpatients that live in the building next door.