"You're so thin."

I hear that, or Beloved's quips on me being a tiny wee thing, frequently. Pointing out the enormous bags of fat that depend on my chest (G cup in British sizing), or the fact I'm about as tall as an average man my age, doesn't deflect from the fact that I am shorter and considerably thinner than most of the people I spend time with, thinner than woman-bodied people of my age as well.

Doctors have commented favourably on me having a fairly low body weight and decent overall fitness level. I don't get told to lose weight when I have a completely unrelated condition. Some overweight people are not so fortunate, even if when weight on a chart is not correlated to poor overall health.

I don't work at being thin. I don't try to starve myself and my exercise routine is specifically designed for strength and endurance, adding bulk in the form of muscle. I hear that I'm lucky, or that I won some kind of genetic lottery.

I don't try to starve myself, but sometimes my biochemistry and past patterns do. When I'm depressed (clinical, not having a sad time so much as a flat affect, anhedonia and impaired executive function), I forget to eat until I figure out the grey-out from low blood sugar and the severe pain in my gut are signs my body needs fuel. I've been discouraged from being seen and heard, and what better way than programming myself to insubstantiality?

I eat what tastes like food, which is mostly fruits, vegetables, nuts, and meats. Sweet and higher-fat foods I will sometimes nearly inhale when I've been exercising intensely, but I don't reach for them. I don't like the way my body feels when I eat starches, so I eat little in the way of breads, cakes, cookies, potatoes, and the like. When I drink juice, it's diluted usually at least 3:1 with water because it's cloyingly sweet.

I've been through financially difficult times. My response to not having much money for food is typically to not eat at all or ro eat less, not to reach for filling (usually starchy) foods. I haven't built up a layer of fat, except in the chesticles when hormones had their way with my body.

I don't drink alcohol. I used to. I don't like the sensations and altered consciousness that intoxicants induce. I tried edibles once in the past year and they're not for me either. Booze has a lot of calories.

One of the ways I calm my mind is being physical. Walking, working out, to a lesser extent singing. It's a rare week that sees me average fewer than 10,000 steps a day in addition to daily stairs (9th floor) and exercise (4-6 times a week). The activity burns fuel and raises my base metabolism so I need more fuel to maintain function.

I don't manage my pain well. I'm working on improving here, but even as I type this I have two hips that are searing their ache into my awareness. When I'm in pain, what appetite I do have is greatly diminished.

The size I am is a part of me that I don't put any effort into. It simply is, like the colour of my eyes. Yes, they're really brown. I'm not virtuous because I'm kind of skinny.

People who are fat to any degree are not lazy or bad. I find my programming telling me they are sometimes, which is its own kind of disturbing. If you notice me acting, speaking, or writing in a way that implies fat people are inferior, please thwack a portion of sense into me by whatever means you prefer. Preferably consensual.

Here endeth the sermon.

I'm working on an article about bullet journaling for podcasters, specifically about handwriting vs. writing on a keyboard. I came across this James Pennebaker guy, and his research into the therapeutic value of writing. I'm linking to Wikipedia instead of a more credible resource because, as I write this, I have something like 40 tabs open on my computer right now, and this bit of info felt most important to share: 
"These results have hatched further studies, numbering over 200. One of these went on to strongly suggest that expressive writing has the potential to actually provide a 'boost' to the immune system, perhaps explaining the reduction in physician visits. This was shown by measuring lymphocyte response to the foreign mitogens phytohaemagglutinin (PHA) and concanavalin A (ConA) just prior to and 6 weeks after writing. The significantly increased lymphocyte response led to speculation that expressive writing enhances immunocompetence. The results of a preliminary study of 40 people diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder suggests that routinely engaging in expressive writing may be effective in reducing symptoms of depression."

What I can't figure out from this is whether or not the study participants wrote using pen or pencil and paper, writing longhand, if they typed, or either. 

We spend a lot of money for laundry appliances today. Since I won't buy Samsung or LG anything (because their after-sale support is notoriously shit) and really nothing on the inexpensive side seems to be super reliable or particularly gentle on clothes, we bought Miele; made in Germany.

I mean yes, I can feel good about the fact that the dryer only uses 110v so will cost us a lot less in electricity and is ventless which will save us both on electricity and vent cleaning (like a hundred bucks a year, strongly recommended by the condo board because a 30' dryer vent duct is a frigging fire hazard).

Honestly, though, if these machines will 1) get our clothes actually clean, without random blorts of lint, and 2) not quickly ruin the very nice business clothes that d needs, and the very nice statement pieces that I need, then it will be so, so worth it.

It's a Vimes Boots thing. You buy the good tool not only because it saves you money in the long run, but it also does the job better day-to-day.

Four of the bins are now in the fridge; I've deemed them ready to eat. I put a bunch in the big jar and they're sooo goood. They taste like FOOD. So good.

So I guess if anyone wanted to come visit with the excuse of pickles, they're ready. On the other hand, snow is forecast for tomorrow.  #fliptable

There's nothing more dangerous than putting on your blessed greased +2 gray dragon scale mail in the morning and thinking that you're invulnerable.

Upon seeing me in my costume, everyone said the same thing. "I found him!"

I recently had a friend describe me as a "straight arrow" in a vaguely critical way to someone who passing around their combustible drug of choice. I.E. "Ray doesn't partake, he's a straight arrow."

Pardon my social blindness, but since when was not choosing to indulge in your drug a decision worthy of criticism?

The definition of straight arrow being: A person righteously devoted to clean or conventional living.

Clean? Meh. Conventional? Hardly. Admittedly, my quirks are fairly mundane and my record is clean enough for the government to think I pass a sniff test. Perhaps this is owing to most people not knowing me very well. 

I guess I'm okay with that.

But there's always later today. 

Engraved on a sample of cherry hardwood flooring, about 4" wide. 

Another thing, just a test. Islamic tile pattern in four colours. 

This is not a self-referential poem.

In fact, it's completely obsessed with talking about all of 
the other poems that influenced it, those poems which 

once 

were read by poets come and gone, or in other cases come 
and not gone so much as moved quite far away, or had their 
weltanschauung changed so greatly that this poem is not any 
longer 
particularly 
impressed
as such things go

This poem is extremely, embarassingly well read; 
it just finished 
the Cantos (that wretched man), 
and 
the Duino Elegies (translated, sadly (but well-)
and it re-read 
The Sonnets 
for the umpteenth time just last weekend...

this poem has an inferiority complex

It wants to apologize for its existence, but it can't seem 
to find the right words. Which is just so...much...a thing

It has big important neighbors, this poem, and often gets 
lost in the shadows, but at least it's not a self-referential
poem...this poem doesn't like self-reference, and honestly 
resents being the work of a poet who does

This poem would consider itself a complete failure if it 
didn't have something in common with the Iliad, namely, 
this poem doesn't end, it stops