Diet Coke is addictive. Also, apparently, it punctures little holes in your brain. And my dad is pretty adamant that aspartame will make you stupid and blind. Confession time? I’ve been drinking it by the gallon for years.

And that’s not the worst of it: I’m a dirty rotten smoker as well.

So I was talking to Trasy at work today while she was exposing the evils of diet soda, the medical model, and the flesh tearing consumption of meat and I decided . . . At least I’m almost certain I have? Yes, I’ve decided to take it to heart.

But I brought six cans with me to work to refresh myself throughout the day so I said I would give it up tomorrow when all this delicious fizzy wonderment had met it’s digestive fate.  I mentioned this to Trasy, yet she remained unmoved. And the question came up, Why would you want to continue doing something that you know is bad for you? Even for a little while?

This has a much broader scope, probably. And it seems all the more pertinent that this conversation took place at the DV shelter. These women here could recite pages of well founded accusations against they’re abusers by the time they arrive. They know what’s wrong; That’s why they come here. And yet, two months later, the guy wasn’t really so bad, or he’s sorry, or there’s a new someone who seems too good to be true and probably is who just wants to take care of them by treating them like his own personal property or punching bag.  Why do people  keep doing what they know is bad for them? Even for a little while?

It’s like that long term crazy spell I went through with Mark. It was obvious to everyone-it was obvious to me!-and yet I bent to his apologies, I made him up in my mind to be much more that he was, and I decided to believe that he was what he said and not what he did. Did I think it wouldn’t catch up to me? Did I think if I designed a pretty picture behind my squeezed eyelids, that it would remain when they opened?

Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just easier to go along, even if you don’t like what you get.

I want to make the brave choice, not the easy one. I want to make the brave choice, not the flashy one. I want to make the brave choice in all things, and maybe these are all pieces of the same puzzle of dissatisfaction.

I think of Erik, who is so disciplined, who stretches to exceed expectations all day after getting barely any sleep. Who works hard and gives of himself in such kind and generous ways, without exception. Who is made up entirely of lean muscle and sleeps easily and is selfless with his time and energy. And I think, That’s beautiful. I think, There but by the disappointment of God go I.

So I need to suck it up.

I’ve embarrassed myself. And the worst part of it is that no one else agrees. It’s bad enough to do something stupid, or shameful, or stupidly shameful, without having to defend your idiotic and/or reprehensible action to everyone who finds out about it. Because then you feel crazy as well as disappointed in yourself.

Sigh.

I made a choice. I made a choice and it was a bad one but the reality is that it was a choice. This wasn’t the old Compulsion coming out again. Praise the Lord that He’s healed me from that.  And yet, apparently my flesh is enough of a salesman that it can get its way without it. I did it because I wanted to.

The Bible says to resist the devil and he will flee from you. But I haven’t been resisting him. I’ve been writing him love notes and keeping him steadily supplied with homebaked cookies. Uck.

I need to get my flesh in order. I will do it. I will, Lord help me.

Somehow I went to bed last night and actually fell asleep before the sun came up. That was Super Duper Hooray Item #1. Then I woke up early this morning and went to church with my dad, which was S.D. H.I. #2. While I was at church, I ran into my old boss from Sacramento that I nannied for, S.D. H. I. #3, and got to see my former charges, Bran and the Bug. S.D.H.I. #s 4 and 5. And after that, my dad and I went to breakfast: no crowds, a delicious omelet, and my dad was pleased to note that there was no banana cream pie in stock, S.D.H.I. #6. Then I came back to my place and hung out with my sister and brother and dad and then I went to go study French, but instead I took a nap, the eighth S.D.H.I.  Also, I finished a good book. All in all, it’s been a good day.

And I have to say I feel fresher. No, no, this isn’t turning into a Calgon commercial. And yet . . . No! This will not turn into a Calgon commercial.

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I have A Problem.

Okay, okay, so I have many problems. In fact, my biggest problem sometimes is trying to catalog and address all my problems. Especially the cataloging part. I have problems like a bargain hunter after a liquidation sale. My problems are varied and voluminous, oddly sized and awkwardly shaped. But they are all exacerbated by The Problem I drew attention to previously, which is this: I love the short road.

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I think I need to go on a European tour. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to use this guy as my travel agent.

There’s really no need to go. The only reason that I’m even contemplating it is because I’m disappointed. How, you may ask? And I answer, In myself.

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(no endorsements are implied from this video.)

There’s a manic spirit of summer drifting in and making everyone wanting to Do Something, and I’ve decided not to fight the current this year. I will Do Something too. In fact, I’ve already got a head start, as I’m doing my laundry today. But maybe that isn’t enough. Yes, I’m almost certain of it.

Talking with my brother over the last couple of weeks has given me the inspiration and even the method of my new madness. He has a friend who did something called “NaNoWriMo” last year. And what might this wonderful anacronym refer to? Only National Novel Writing Month!!! Basically the idea is to crank out a 50K word novel within thirty days, aka the month of November. But check it, readers. For those insane enough that one month of sleepless nights spent beating their heads against the typewriter, begging, begging, begging for something, anything to occur to them, still leaves them with the shakes? There is apparently a secondary iditarod of fiction, namely JulNoWriMo (Psst! It takes place in July).

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That’s the name of a class I took in college, and the one in which I fell in love with the childish poetry of Stevie Smith and the extra-ordinary stories of Alice Munro. I invoke it’s title to remind myself of the first blush of desire that precedes a good old fashioned book lust.

So I’m off Simon and on to modern classic literature. My sister was kind enough to accompany me to the Half Price Book Store this afternoon and help me peruse the A-D aisle for a sampling of Adams, Balzac, Collins, and DeLillo, to name a few. I even procured a copy of A Clockwork Orange, which I’m already almost certain I’m going to hate.

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I’m thinking of  starting a multi-month fast. However, since my body will probably not hold up to the rigors of a hundred days of food  deprivation, I may shorten it. Slightly. Maybe not.

So why are you doing this, you may be asking yourself. Might I suggest you ask ME instead of yourself? Since I’m the one doing it and all?! Sheesh. Whatever.  Anyway, I’m doing it for a couple of reasons, but the principle one is  that I feel like I need some more discipline. As of late, I feel like I’ve slacked. And certainly the challenges of this past year have been key in this laxening of my behaviors. But it’s no excuse. A reason surely, not an excuse.

Some good news: I’ve been smoke free for two weeks come tomorrow. Huzzah! How cool am I? And the answer comes, there aint enough space left in this limitless entry to express it.