- Reason #478,329 of Why God Hates Me: I'm a messy eater. Basically,
I'm a slob. And I don't know why. But for some reason, I can't
help but drop a bouillabaisse of condiments and ingredients on my person
and my surroundings when I eat. And I don't know why. I would
be the perfect spokesman for Carl's Jr.
(A burger chain who's advertising slogan is, "If it doesn't get all over
the place, it doesn't belong in your face"). But they won't hire
me. And I don't know why.
Yes I do know -- God hates me.
I don't consider myself a particularly fast eater (except for french fries), and since I try to take care of my appearance, I'm not inclined to disregard cleanliness in exchange for a rush to gluttony. But I make a mess nonetheless. Saturday, for example, was an afternoon nightmare: I got stoned. OK, this isn't unusual, but then I went with Das and Paul to Paul's office to watch Paul burn CDs for Das (ooh, what fun!). We stopped by a liquor store on the way, and I got a bottle of Coke. When I opened it, in the car, it fizzled over onto my shirt, my shorts, and the back seat of Das' car. After that, I started munching on the M & Ms I bought. I dropped one or two, and thought I got em' all. When we got to Paul's office, I was snacking on Kit Kats for most of the time. At one point I stood up and realized I had a left a big brown mess on the chair, right between where my legs would have been. I I also had a bit on the bottom of my shorts. Of all the places to make a mess, and of all the colors I could make a mess with, it had to be a chocolate-covered spot on my seat. <SIGH> After I did an OK job of wiping it off, we went home. When we got back to Ray's, Paul realized he'd been sitting on one or two melted M & Ms, which proved that they don't melt in your hands, but they do melt underneath someone's butt. Das has since forbade me from eating in his car.
Phil did the same thing -- he got tired of me dropping taco cheese all over the backseat of his car.
I just got back from lunch, and didn't make much of a mess -- just a couple of drips of Arby's sauce on the magazine I was reading. But all of this has just made me think about what a disgusting pig my friends must think I am, even though I'm usually unaware of it. I use a knife and fork, I use chopsticks, I put a napkin on my lap when eating out, but it's no use -- I somehow, inexplicably, wind up leaving a mess.
Maybe it's social anxiety relating to eating in public -- that's what the article in US News and World Report might suggest. I get so nervous that I just drop food everywhere!
I'm running out of medication so I made an appointment to see my psychiatrist tonite. The Paxil & Wellbutrin cocktail I've been taking has been working pretty well, I think. My overall mood has picked up considerably, and I get visibly down a lot less often, and for shorter periods of time. I know that if I think seriously about things, like how I'll never get any, then my mood suffers, but it takes a lot more now for me to get down. Hmm, mebbe my medication acts like blinders -- they force me to look at only certain things, and by blocking out other thoughts that they don't want my mind to think about, they take my mind off of them. Does that make sense? No? Good -- that's what it's like talking to me.
I realized this morning that most journallers I read seem to be getting some. Well, lemmee think...ok, most of em' do, or have the opportunities to. Note: If you want to make an interesting journal, be sure to write about how you're getting some! A lesson I should take to heart...