So, I came upon another daily encounter of my stupidity with salad.
1. A cucumber that has been left in the fridge for a week (because your mom came over to make other deliciously unhealthy food so you forsook the sad salad for the moment), is completely (questionable) but edible.
2. There is absolutely no correct way of slicing/cutting a tomato + avocado. Those squishy suckers just comes off in slabs and you deal with it. Especially if the avocado is half overdue – as aforementioned with all my deadline-fruits/vegetables. Thanks Mom.
3. Not checking the fridge to see your stock is amateur. Now you’ve got about half a dozen tomatoes for one, Duck.
4. Who the hell invented goat cheese and that gooey stuff in the middle? Was it meant to be put as gourmet on some artistan sandwich? Because I bought it to feel cool. Then realized there was in fact an expiration date, thus commenced to just slowly and painfully mulled the sucker off with a fruit knife and let it melt in one zesty
fiasco fiesta. That’s some heavy stuff.
5. All the above is acceptable as my salad was completely drenched in dressing. Plus, accompanied by boiled mini potatoes. Cute, but they make you gassy, so don’t do that.
p.s eating salad as mentioned above does not justify your new desire to be ‘healthy’ Duck. It’s called being poor and on a budget and cheating because you had a Starbucks cinnamon swirl later that day. So much for that early morning work out.
What am I doing working out? I found a better answer than to say I want to get fit or get disciplined. I just want my friggin annual money’s worth. Motivational enough for some of you ladies? Just remember each time you’re craving to buy those sweets or itching for that new sweater, it’s all because of this, so go kill that gym membership with a vengeance.
Though in all fairness, the one I’m attending is another format of me cheating. A 30 minute kickboxing, pilates, self-defense 13-rotating stations one-shot work out jam? I can convince myself in two minutes intervals at each station I’m doing alright (for the most part). The best thing about it is getting your own kick-ass leather boxing gloves and gym totes. Mine is baby blue, but who gives a shit if I can pack a good punch right?
Then again…getting completely beat by a laid down punching bag between your loins should ring a bell for some significant physical changes that needs to be taking place in fear for my human pride. I will not get owned by something we are asked to put between our thighs and kick like madwomen.
Too weird? You’re right. Maybe I should consider like, therapy.
It’s alright because I ended up at the Vancouver’s Writer’s Festival. Last minute drop by in the down pour that has been happening. I swear the weight of all that water has drowned that poor island an inch. Also engaged in conversation with some otherwise random peeps here and there as well. Discovered after watching a considerably new 21st century comedy, of which I feel my sophistication on this blog does not permit for me to disclose, that conversation with just any one guy will not simply do. Of course all in depth day to day epiphanies about your true self happens in the midst of laughing at inappropriate jokes. Perhaps I am potentially genuinely am intrigued by this certain man I have been contemplating. Intrigued as to not give away the chase. We’re all getting a little too caught up in this rat race, ey?
It was an overall good night though. I decided on the way back home that the cars passing by on the streets seemed to me like wild animal runs on African planes. In my field of vision is the camera’s eye, and we all watch intently as they fled across that white border. Then a looming giant nudges it’s weight into the picture on the peripheral, large and impatient, while one last lollygagger was tucking in it’s bottom, zooming past to be with the pack ahead. The bus turns the corner and roars past me.
I have been way too tired for the night.
It’s 4:11am. Somebody tell me what the heck am I doing.