Last night, I ate salad.

This is the third time in my career as some sort of fuckedup herbivore that I have had salad. I'm not sure that salad will ever be completely enjoyable to me, but at least I'm learning. I have had the punishment of salad leveled on me on a few other times, and I have never enjoyed it. Usually I eat it to be polite--my uncle used to serve salad as a meal, and salad alone; I ate it. I picked the chicken and cheese out of it and ate them first with tiny bits of lettace garnishing the top, but I ate it.

So I ate salad last night. Surprisingly, I did not recieve the usually system shut down information from my twisted, lurching stomach. I didn't really enjoy it, either, but I didn't seize into stomach arrest, either.

Grocery shopping again. Sometimes I think I buy things to have things. I'm not hungry, but when the cabinets get empty looking, I go to the store and I buy things to fill the cabinets. Four kinds of pasta. Three boxes of macaroni and cheese. Six cans of soup. So repetative, so repetative. I feel like some throwback to the Great Depression: what if I run out? What if I need more than just one box of macaroni? What if we're forced to stay in our deathtrap house, and I eat all my food? What if all I needed was just the one box more. And so on and so forth, ecetera ad nauseum. So at the grocery store--as if to conteract the night's unsettlingly pleasent salad experience--I bought the makings for pierogies. I suppose you could make pierogies vegetable friendly, but I made sure to make them into this little cheese and potato loaded timebombs, just waiting for me to eat them.


In other news: it's snowed and frozen and resnowed and refrozen so much that tires are freezing to pavements. We poured hot water on the car door to unstick it. It is not a pleasent time to try and eke out a life in, vegetables aside.