Notes From Hibernation

I encountered a moment of profound self-awareness and introspection earlier today when I glanced up and saw my reflection of myself consuming the contents of a tube of Pringles on the blacked-out screen of my laptop.  One cannot experience a more evocative and startling instance of personal revelation.

My first reaction when I glimpsed into myself mindlessly gorging the fat free fried potatoes was, Shit, I can’t throw this up.  I’m not bulimic anymore.

My next reaction was despair over my helpless lassitude as I contemplated just how long I have been tinkering about, snacking and woolgathering inside the caverns of my mind before my computer screen inevitably fell asleep and went black:  Shit.  I have done…nothing…at all today.

Maybe you’re wondering what a recovered bulimic is doing with a tube of Pringles to begin with, even if they’re the kind that are fried in that fake fat.  It’s not actually my tube of Pringles.  It’s my parents’ Pringles.  I’m sitting in my parents’ house rummaging through their pantry.  Because I moved in with my parents last month.  Several years, two degrees and three cities later, weary, derelict, defeated, bedbug bitten, at the close of my youth, I have come back to the household from whence I came.   Continue reading