I’ve been clean – I’ve been au naturel – for at least a couple months now. No chemical cocktails prescribed for me. Last time I did this, a certain mindset developed. I don’t regret this. Sure, it reflects reality in an unflattering light, perhaps distorting the angles or flattening the picture here and there, and the perspective is, in theory, something to pontificate at leisure. Only, death-affirming philosophies are something of a drag. They be creepin’ when I have downtime. (And I have a lot of downtime.) The situation, I gotta say, is totes characteristic of my general aversion toward action.

Really, it seems like I’m a broken or faulty model and don’t want to be fixed.

Probably to do with the programming up in here; I’m starting to think that all my problems are psychosomatic. But with the mind-body feedback loop, it’s hard to tell where a thing begins. Some testing for symptoms could be done, if I can achieve retrograde amnesia and dump my current ego for a near-blank slate.

This life ain’t the movies.

I guess I’m stuck in my head, except when I sleep. And even then, dreams do happen. REM’s a mixed bag, after all.

But. As far as entertainment goes, dreaming’s top notch. For one, it’s immersive. For another, it’s time well spent, sleeping. There’s not much that can compare.

But the real reason I dropped gaming was aspirational.

Fictional characters have more glamorous vices, or they live their lives to the full. My hobby was boring escapist fare, and not a very attractive one at that.

The funny thing about this escapism, though, is that it’s sometimes the lifeline that keeps you sated. Keeps you drugged. I was ready to kick a few habits to begin living my life, and look where I’ve gotten.

I’d rather be upcycled than repaired.

Organ donation is where it’s at.

Though, maybe it’s not upcycling if the recipient isn’t a Steve Jobs? Whatever. Some sparkle can glam up the remainder, make me nice and flashy, gauche but not cheap.

Diamonds are forever, right?

Forever hard.

Herp derp!

That bling’s low maintenance stuff. Lump sum and you’re set.

But first, I’ve got to work. I’ve got to work to make that moolah. I’ve got to work out – and work it well – if I’m going to live fast (like in fiction) and leave behind a beautiful corpse.

And I have. I’ve gone to the gym, seven times in two weeks. Not a bad start. Not to mention, in my quest not to remain a bag of goo, I discovered a fun little fact:

 Sexy and I Know It
is the best weight-training song a wannabe can ask for.