Pull, Tug, Tug, Pull

Green beans, whole. Onion powder, a dash too much. Salt. Pepper. A can of mushroom pieces and parts. Eat three quarters. Chill. Nuke, eat again.
The sum of these things is my RDA dose of daily pleasure -- just one sunny spot of it. Not that my life behind the glass is a terrible, unbearable ordeal. It's just... nothing. And that is worse.
So, the state of my life is thus: the apex of my human experience is reheated green bean casserole.
I'm hungry, but not that hungry. I call other way-too-busy church wife who just returned from Louisiana. How's about that king cake you offered Sunday?
Gradually, I see myself deciding to take action. Grab those bull horns and give 'em a good yank. (On a tangent, I'm amusing myself by recalling a part from the movie "City Slickers" when Billy Crystal says he has "pulled and tugged, tugged and pulled" for milk, only to discover that the sex of the beast he's violating is terribly, horribly misunderstood....heh heh.)
Victoria's Secret catalogues arrive every three or four days now. I eagerly rip them open (in an assuredly heterosexual manner, mom!), searching the contents for guidance like a twelve-year-old with her first Seventeen. A push, if you will, in a more empowering direction. Inside those pages, long stalks of lean muscle mass beckon my back to the floor, where I will tug and pull and pull and tug my abdomenal muscles into a tighter, more pleasing shape (sorry, I just can't leave that one alone!). Somehow, if I've done only crunches, I tell myself that my requirement of daily excercise is somehow fulfilled. Now it's fiber, coffee, water, fiber, repeat.
I've begun begging reading material from friends. New knowledge, new stories, new ways to use my mind as my eyes and reinterpret my wilted point of view. My bathroom cabinet is stuffed with water damaged books. My web browser overflows with bookmarked blogs. I read Scarlett, The Lovely Bones, a youth translation Bible taken from the youth room, Star featuring Brangelina & babies, Hogscald Holler, The Hermitage, How to Eat, and online commentaries on The Secret Life of Bees -- I saw the film last week and fell in love with the sisters, the house, the whole premise. It made me want to flesh out my own flower-colored, nurturing, pancakes-and-syrup-every-breakfast, nearly-noumenal fantasy safety world.
The intoxicating sense of excersizing complete and ultimate control over the worlds I will create on paper fills my heart like smoke, curling into its abandoned, unswept corners, awakening them and calling them into labour. Ambitions begin to take shape.

I will have fresh air and pajamas and long, soft, artistic hair. I will take two baths per day and consult with my pugs for their professional opinions.

So forget music for awhile.

I'm going to be a writer.