Deciphering the sweet and the floury stuff

Okay, I am not inspired by having biscuits for breakfast – be it the act or the idea. I dislike how the taste of sugar resonates in my throat after just three of those. Especially since I’m in the habit of having them with strong coffee, a drink to which I am a trustworthy slave. This toxic relationship is one which I find myself moderately ashamed of. I should be – after having given most of my friends and acquaintances a talking to for their smoking ‘addiction’. What hypocrisy I display! Of course I’ll never admit to this…

I highly doubt that even a scone would inspire anything out of me – jam or no jam. Cake may stand a chance, just as long as it has no carrot in as an ingredient or in its title. That I can’t stand unless it’s my mother who made it. Not necessarily because she makes the best but because I would want her to not feel like she wasted her time baking in the first place.

Aah, the biscuit! It may be nutritious, easy-to-store, long lasting, and blah-blah-blah, but I couldn’t care less. It’s sweet, fattening and all the things we’ve been warned against. I am not fooled. It resembles nothing good. It is almost evil. Perhaps that’s a heavy word, an unnecessary word in this context. I love how I rebuke myself. I’m almost a conservative parent’s idea of an obedient child.

Here’s the deal: Ginger biscuits only serve to reinforce the tale of the Gingerbread Man. What ill fate! That story talks about the biscuit’s escape…only for it to get caught by a fox, of all things. Chocolate biscuits give me an image of being wheeled to hospital on a stretcher. And I'm not even a health junkie, not even close.

Staying off biscuits will probably mean having more bread. I don’t mind bread, as long as it’s not low-GI, wholegrain, seeded this-and-that. To me, that just sounds pretentious, I can’t deal. Call me plain, but I am a white-bread type of girl.

I could simply have a rusk, but that would just remind me of my inevitable aging process. The day evidence of this shows I will know my beauty has been depleted. Which girl wants to leave with that!

Basically, I’m screwed. What a flop!

Bruising my talents

There’s nothing I do as well as to procrastinate. I suppose I could give myself more credit than that. I have just come to the realization that I am onto something – something I’m sufficient in. . . .

Even my talents have grown weary of scolding me, pleading with me to write that article, strike up that conversation or send that email – whatever. I annoy them more so when I’m completely aware of the progress I would unlock if I would juuuust make that move. At first my inactivity ticked my talents off and they remained hopeful, thinking I would someday change and lean towards actually doing. At this point they are busy washing their hands of me. I’m hurt mostly because the blame is mine to bear.

My talents! Their dominant body language is easily readable. ‘Nudge, nudge’ they constantly went in my head. They fell short of slapping me only because they lack the physical build. Their frustration exceeded everything else, so nudge they went again.

Falling victim to something you allowed to take advantage of you from day one is just appalling. But it’s easy. I was not led on, I gave my consent. Indeed, it was out of my own discord that I fell deeply for tempting short-lived pleasure. In my head it would ring that I was fighting progress. Yet watching something meaningless on TV became meaningful. Even repeats did nothing to deter me from watching the first time.

Observation was spared for activities that drew from me (in energy, money and TIME) and left me without. Steps taken were often facing in the direction most people take; backwards. I seldom made time for growth, satisfying the temporary want and choosing to be taken by it. Perhaps never doing meant never fearing not to succeed.

It was like a lover I was addicted to, knowing perfectly well that he was poison wrapped in attractive packaging I still went back for more…and more. Funny as it may seem, it may be that I was unknowingly addicted to disappointment. I had no will to fight this lover off, but it didn’t keep me resenting him. And this was a cycle which never failed to repeat itself, each time with equal success.

Only much change can heal the broken bond I once shared with my talents, before I weakened them. Rejection after rejection, their ego has been severely bruised. Breaking habits has never been something I found easy. Being flexible I can do if it does not concern the body. Falling has left me with physical scars, but I dare to try with my talents again, that I may fall having at least stood up and smelled the fresh air in the sky. If I fall yet again, I will rejoice at the smell of grass. I have to.

…Now that I have determined all this, will I go back to ‘my ways’?