Puffy

Originally Posted Sunday, September 21, 2014

I did it--I stayed away from all human contact yesterday (if you rule out my trips to the gym and to the grocery store).  Easy in the morning and afternoon.  But as I said, nightfall is another thing.  I worked on old pictures all the live-long day.  As the sun began to set, though, I felt a need.  There is a new pub that opened up not half a mile from my house.  I thought maybe to walk in, to give it a go.  A friend was going out to a birthday party with her girlfriends and texted me pictures of the liquors they were about to drink.  Another friend texted a message wondering when she would get to see my pretty face again.  A couple emails came, too.  I was feeling torn.  My inclination was to stay put, of course, to enjoy my pretty home and the beautiful music and the love of a semi-devoted cat.  But the devil drives, too, and there was the feeling that everyone else was out and about having fun while I stayed home, "having none."  I was still undecided when I drove to Fresh Market.  Q called to express the troubles of our times.  His, really.  He was amped up on something, I think, for he was really animated.  I told him that the love of a young girl would cure him of his syphilis.  Not everlasting love, of course, but the more intense and interesting kind.  "My god, man, you are like a retarded genius," I told him.  "I'm sick of your life.  I want to make love to your girlfriends.  They will never forget it."  "Of course not," he screamed, "not with your saggy ass and droopy balls.  They certainly wouldn't forget that."  I reminded him that though he was younger, he now topped two hundred and fifty pounds, and while he hadn't any mirrors in the house, that wasn't a preventative.  "I've heard it, my friend.  They're calling you Mr. Potato Head behind your back."  I noticed that my t-shirt had gotten caught in the fold of fat between my belly and my new titty and pulled it out with a giggle.  "You're an abomination," he said.  "No, I'm sweet.  All the girls say so.  It is my peculiar charm."  "Your charm is peculiar, alright.  It falls somewhere between laughable and non-existent." 

On and on.  Sometimes I wonder if Q really loves me.  He can be so mean.  I told him I had to go, that I was losing weight sitting in the car outside the honey pot of decadent foods.  I knew I wouldn't be going out.  I was in the armpit of sensual pleasure. 

Loaded up with bad things, I went home.  It was really too late to be eating the way I was about to, but early for going out.  My friend texted me about all the fun she was having.  Fuck her, I thought.  Fuck everybody.  I was sitting at home on a Saturday night with a pile of food and fascinating bottles of many kinds of wines and beers and liquors.  I didn't need anybody.  Let them have their fun.  I was plenty happy at home. 

Later, full of food and liquor, belly busting, I lay in my bed and pointed my volcano to the gods.  "I think I'm puffy," I yelled out to the cat who was three rooms away in her cat bed.  I wanted to read.  I pulled a book out of the pile of books by the side of my bed.  "The Back Book."  I read it and looked at the gentle yoga postures they touted.  Yes, yes, I will do that, I thought, not tonight, of course, but tomorrow.  I will begin working on my flexibility and I will begin to meditate.  Tomorrow.  There is nothing that cannot be done tomorrow. 

The last text of the night came in.  It was a picture of two cocktails.  The accompanying text was nothing but the name of the bar.  Fuck 'em all.  I turned out the light.  I was, I knew. . . I was definitely puffy.