Pouring a martini into a coffee mug is so satisfying. If the heat won't be there to warm you the burn will, and the familiarity of a toasty mug is complimentary. The comfort of the two together is enough milk ones way into addiction. Which is an issue i fear I'm battling currently. The mug makes it easier to drink, and far less casual. Casual would be with a stem attached to the bottom. Habit is an ikea mug, a zip up hoodie and Seinfeld. So i'm working my way into an illness, and it startles me, but not as intensely as say an addiction to tobacco would. I worry about the smell of cigarettes, i realize I'm not going to reek of alcohol on Monday morning. Perhaps I will one day. For now i enjoy fruity mixes and red wine. White wine tastes like liquid gravol. Sorry lovers.
And then there's the friends who smoke. No i don't know if i like to smoke with neighbours. I don't spin. I like spinning. It's wicked obvious as well. It billows. I speak 7 years pre current age. Sub socialistic. Unopinionated and horrifyingly simple with dialect. It's a mock of the sapience and a farce of my poise. I am unknowingly conveying the unornamented version of me. Though hard to say, is no one i would put a name behind. And still, I will continue to, in isolation, use. By myself my mind is macabre. For the rest of my life then I will continue to enjoy chilled wine and bread. Simple food. Soul food. An addiction to une vive.
I could hide this addiction. I could fuck this addiction so hard.
Take away for today: http://www.parasolmag.com/
lovely. free. mindful.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment