Oooh you're a naughty mess

second cup of delicious tea imbibed and i'm feeling good/ need to stop drinking/ this is only because i am vain/ last summer i was lithe and sexy/ now i am fat/ not horribly soft and fat, more manly bulk, but i do miss my lithe physique/ i like to be flattered and one invites little flattery when one is overweight/ perhaps i should start working out/ after all, it would give me something to do/ i could rise at seven and work out till about eight or half eight every morning/ i used to do up to three hours at the gym a day/ mainly weights but i got hooked on running latterly/ i used to run half marathons on the fly/but although i'm not exactly happy at the moment i believe i was even more depressed then/ that level of exertion is tantamount to punishment/ explorers (intelligent ones) know there is something missing (or something that shouldn't be there) and it is this which spurs them on to do great things/ however no matter how great the achievement i find the mind set essential for achieving these things in the first place necessarily precludes any real enjoyment of them/ a paradox, no?/ it seems also that the more capable one in, the greater the price one pays for one's capabilities/ e.g. a vivid imagination can be the most wonderful or the most terrible thing/ this is where a psychiatrist would say one has to start taking control of one's thoughts/ strength of mind/ my psychiatrist told me to repeat that i love myself over and over/ soon the mind becomes accustomed to love as an immediate reaction rather than hate/ one is better off all round for this/ i dunno/ i find seritonin massively important/ i've always veered blue or even blackwards but i can safely say that ecstasy and it's seritonin depleting abilities has had a massive effect on my mental health/ booze too/ i even noted in a diary about a year ago how since i'd taken up the practice of regularly imbibing kestrel super the morning sun failed to ignite a spark of hope in the old soul/ indeed, the glorious morning light after a good nights sleep (which i was getting cos of the methadone) would invariably cause the old soul to flood with golden joy/ but once the hangovers started, no more/ however i drink, nay do all these things, out of boredom/ because i lack strong inclinations in other, less ruinous directions/ whatever i do i do in a thoroughly committed, self-aware fashion/ if i could apply these qualities to say, my writing, i'd excel/ but the natural impulse must precede any such endeavor/ my obsessions are unpretentiously sparked/ i did not set out to get into french cooking/ i simply read and tried a few recipes and was utterly hooked/ i excelled rapidly from a guy who could cook only bolognaise to someone who could cook fine french dishes that made mouths orgasm/ i was shit hot/ same with philosophy, hi-fi, we-hunting, cunnilingus, my various addictions, mathematics: everything i've had the impulse to obsessively apply myself to i've been hugely successful at/ so i'm waiting for the next thing...