Creature of Aesthetic

I like round cups.

Mid Century design.

Bloody Marys with pickle juice.

Color.

 

I don’t like feeling like a joyless zombie.

I don’t like being unable to tell the difference between anxiety and poop.

I don’t like the feeling of pointlessness that creeps in when I let it.

 

I am a creature of aesthetic. I like it when things look pretty. (Or, as Delilah would interject “You like cool, mommy. I like pretty.”) I forget sometimes that that holds true even when no one is looking. It’s at odds with my lazy side. “Why make my bed if I’m getting back into it later?” “Why put that sweater in the closet when I’m going out again in an hour?” “Why put the food on a plate and dirty an extra dish?” So now I am a creature of aesthetic drinking milk straight from the carton so I don’t dirty the round cups that give me just a little bit of extra pleasure when I hold a drink in them. My lazy side denies my aesthetic side air, and as a result I have created a life that is not aesthetically pleasing, a life of convenience and unitaskers and getting to the things I like later.

 

Well, it’s fucking later. And I’m a good enough reason for the nice china, even if it creates an extra dish.

Feed Me Seymour

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