//diary, sunday march 20th
maybe it's a sign that my first draft of this entry was lost to poor phone service. i've since had twenty four hours to compact the ideas and thoughts and events, and it might not be thumb-numbing novel length.
i biked to work. the weather was nice and my parents were unwilling to drive. i hadn't biked in over a year and a half, and the whooshing, wheeling motion was pleasantly familiar. but i'm not in great shape, especially with my recent... habits, and a great deal of the ride is uphill. i stopped only when my thigh muscles were searing and my lungs and throat felt raw. as soon as i clocked in i grabbed a bottled water from the cooler, downing half in a single gulp.
cute guy i talk to on snap wasn't there. i'd seen him post to his story that morning, but i suppose his shift ended before mine began. oh well. i'm chatting with him as we speak.
i was responsible for yet another "full bake." "baker" is a charitable job description, as all we do is pull frozen baked goods to be thawed, heated, and smothered in glaze or powder or frosting. it's mundane, but physically demanding and quite time consuming.
i despaired that once again, i wouldn't be able to complete the bake in my five hour shift. but my manager assured me that someone would be coming in later to finish what i started, which took some of the pressure off.
i washed my hands, rolled up my sleeves, and hit shuffle on my work playlist: "no skipping no crying no bitching." to start, my least favorite task: carrying boxes from the freezer.
seeing as my hyper independence prevented me from asking anyone to get the door, there was no way id get more than one box at a time. every second in that ice cold hellbox had me irritated. at the space for being poorly organized and forcing me to play "heavy boxes at eye level" tetris to get what i needed from the back, at my thirteen year old self for listening to a poorly written creepypasta about a murderer stuffing the dead bodies of fast food workers into the restaurant meat freezer, thus letting my imagination run wild when i was in there.
i actually take pride in my hatred of the freezer as the most normal thing about me. it's not reflective of debilitating anxiety, or obsessive compulsive behavior, or the mild paranoia that's been creeping up on me lately. it's not related to a pang of deep emotional trauma or severe phobia. i despise the freezer and would gnash my teeth if asked to venture in one time too many, nothing more nothing less. it makes me feel like a real person and not a collection of symptoms and daydreams and fragments of--
once the dreaded freezer was out of my way, i focused on the glaze donuts while the non-glazed went through the oven. i'd have to hand glaze them, which was a pain. but oh well, all the more time to make juvenile jokes about creamy white liquid. mitski, hozier, caged the elephant, pierce the veil, and my usual silly daydreams faded in and out of focus as i waited for the excess donut cum-
-glaze to drip back onto the glaze table before putting in the next tray. it only took three and a half hours for all the donuts to be baked, and all the glazed goods to be baked and set on the rack, ready to sell the next day. i finally tackled the bagels and muffins, gritting my teeth and making two final round trips to the freezer. my manager was heading out as i started on the jelly-filled donut holes. he asked if everything was good, and reminded me to leave something for the next baker to do.
even as i was eager to clean up and pedal home, the child within was disappointed that i couldn't do the creame filled donuts and privately say i was "impregnating" them.
everything cleaned up at 6:55, i poured myself some oreo hot chocolate waiting for the muffins to finish. i didnt think about the calories until it was halfway down, then i tossed it. it wasn't that good anyways.
at 7:10, i clocked out, unlocked my bike, and pedaled three miles home.
i returned to leftovers in the fridge. my parents suggested making smores, and i gave only a "maybe." they did it without me. ouch. oh well.
i stood beneath the hot water, massaging the sore muscles under three week old scars, clearing my pores of fast food fumes and powdered sugar, and fighting with myself. the vigorous exercise split my brain in two. to skip a meal, or eat as much as i needed to restore my body. i chose the latter.
still, the stuffed salmon and quinoa salad were right there. i'd rather drink the president's gastric fluid than waste food this nice. my instinct to pair the salmon with sour cream was a good one.
the quinoa salad reminded me of last summer, when id bring a tupperware of the stuff to my four week intensive of les misérables. best weeks of my life. i'd almost relapsed one night then, but id reached out to friends, and talked myself down.
i couldn't imagine doing that now.
how could i ruin it like this?
i felt terrible after the meal, but my overall mood was half decent. school tomorrow. school meant friends, school meant violin, school meant nic, school meant exercise.
i went to bed at quarter to ten, unusually early. i felt accomplished and incomplete and warm and so so so
as always, here's a bee 🐝 friend if you read all this shit. stay safe babes x.
