The Seven Deadly Sins (3/7) | Gluttony

I can’t stop eating.

Day in, day out, I tell myself to quit, I’ll learn from this pain, my desire to take control will win out over the cravings.

But it doesn’t.

I’ll get over it next time, right now I need something.

A little something.

A few little somethings.

All the somethings.

Empty out the fridge.


Then salty.

Then pickled.

Then sweet.

Then savoury.

Sickening combinations, massive amounts, until it hurts to move.

I’m clearly filling some bottomless void, I can analyse myself till I’m blue in the face, it doesn’t help.

Not like chocolate.



The Seven Deadly Sins (2/7) | Lust

Good lord.

I still go to pieces when I think of him.

The politics of lust, of course, suggest he must never know that I want to jump on him and run my fingers through his hair. Oh no, oh no. That would give him too much advantage. Better he think I’ve never thought of him since, him and his lovely face.

I see his picture and immediately grin like an idiot; I see his name and I’m all aflutter. Oh! Oh, him! Oh, shit! Never mind! Wipe that smile right off.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ll run into each other. Wouldn’t that be exciting? And then, with a little successful flirtation, I could wrap myself around him and things would get really exciting, ahehe—christ calm down already.

I haven’t run into him and that’s probably a good thing. It’s probably a better thing that I don’t get involved with him. But.

I wanna I wanna I wanna!

He’s not a great person though.

Oh, he’s a delicious person!

Who said that?

It’s hard to tell which part of my body’s right about him, you know. I suppose if all the other organs are into it but there’s still opposition, the big NO is coming from my brain. One simply must listen to the brain.

“Still,” Brain offers. “Maybe we should give this one last try. Maybe it could be great.”

Even the smart organ’s a little iffy on the subject.

“Let’s do it!” screams the dumb organ. (Not so much dumb as, hm, single-minded?)

“Let’s try it!” yells the heart. “No, wait, bad idea, I’m fragile!”

“What do I do?!” screams Brain.

“I’ll pacify you!” offers stomach, and I have a delicious slice of coconut cream pie and forget about him for the time being.



The Seven Deadly Sins (1/7) | Sloth

I’m late.


Of course, I have no good reason. I could have gotten out of bed earlier. I just didn’t want to.

I never want to. I’m sorry, but there is nothing out there so urgent or desirable that I personally, internally feel the need to get up.

Externally, there are deadlines, commitments, other people waiting. I do hate to wait, I do understand how a tight schedule works. I see how it affects others. So I’ll make the effort.

But I FEEL none of it. I don’t care.

I’m tired.

I’m taking public transit. It’s slow, it’s poorly run, so I’m made even later for depending on it. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. I don’t have the energy to go looking for it, though.

At the end of the day it’s one big energy conservation project. I know how limited my resources are, I have to use them wisely. I can’t afford to get worked up or feel anything, that’ll just drain me dry and I’ll be a useless zombie for the rest of the day, even week, even longer. I can’t afford to think, my brain will shut down entirely. At least with the bare minimum I can pretend I’m functioning. You’re worthless if you’re not functioning. Now, how well you’re functioning, that’s your problem.

Apparently I’m depressed. There’s no sympathy for the depressed. You’re just being lazy and you need to pull yourself out of it and do whatever task you need to do.

What if the task feels pointless, though? What if the task feels pointless, AND you’re smart? You know it’s pointless and a smart person doesn’t waste their energy on pointless tasks. It’s a waste of time.

Why am I even alive? I’m barely living. Others are annoyed by my life too. Yet if I talk about killing myself they panic, demand I keep living.

So I just think about it privately now.

They don’t want to deal with you when you’re alive, but they’ll put on a show of emotion when you’re dead.



Audrey Exists!

I’m a survivor!

Just crawlin’ through the waves, lookin’ gorgeous, surviving.

Oh, the strength required to survive. To persist. To endure. “Wow! Look at you! You’ve made it through so much, and you’re STILL HERE!”

I’m sorry, is that supposed to be uplifting? I’ve got a “Life Sucks But I’m Not Dead” badge, whoopee!!!!

It does no good to quit; anyone can quit. Many do. What creates the memorable in history is the persistence, the determination, the grit. Hence the celebration of grit.

But, for goodness sakes, grit sucks. It’s GRIT. Do you order GRIT at a restaurant? Do you gaze at a shooting star and wish for GRIT?

I’ve been surviving for … a long time now. It’s been a deeply painful and exhausting journey, rife with setbacks, obstacles, loss. Those who know some of the gritty details have congratulated me on my strength; my strength to survive.

Blechhh!!! What kind of accomplishment is that?!

I want to THRIVE! I want to crawl through the waves of a nice beach, looking as gorgeous as Bey! I want to sing and dance in a paradise I was able to afford to travel to! And other, non-Survivor-Music-Video things!

Currently I’m still a bit adrift on a choppy sea, but I’m closer to land and it’s not quite the lightning-struck overpowering waves of the last year. So, yay me!

“Does this mean you’ll be writing more frequently, Audrey?”

Depends if I don’t go overboard, kiddo.


See, I’m being clever!



On Audrey Time, Always.

This title courtesy of JB, and one of my favourites of his sayings.

Many moons ago, when he was just back from a business trip across the world and still feeling the different time zone, he wrote to me in the middle of the night, only to be surprised with a prompt response. “Of course you’re awake,” said he.

JB has a fondness for writers, which would make him quite a narcissist as he is a wonderful writer himself.


These days I am living a rather transient life, wherein I see my computer only briefly in the mornings and evenings, then spend the entirety of the day in different parts of the city. Compy is suspicious of how much time I’m spending with Phone, but he need not worry – Phone is a silly old thing with no data, he can never give me what Compy gives me. But it’s good to keep ‘em guessing, I guess.

And so, I record my thoughts in a most archaic – or romantic, depending on how you look at it – fashion: in a little notebook I carry around with me. I’m not sure my handwriting is getting any less atrocious, but I’m trying(!), and practice don’t hurt.

The point I am coming to – yes, there is always a point! – is that I’m all over the timeline. Thoughts and essays from days, weeks and months ago litter my space, and when I return home, late in the evening, to my current, privacy-less abode, I do not have the energy or wherewithal to type up and share the day’s thoughts. If any.

Now, on the rare occasion a free period will arise, I will race into Compy’s loving embrace, prepared to finally release my nonsense in to the digital universe – only to stumble. “Um, it says ‘today’, should I change the language? I mean, as far as the reader knows, ‘today’ is today and not last Monday. Oh, but I reference the weather, and it was peculiar that day. To say nothing of accuracy!” For I like to be very precise.

“Curses!” I snap. Compy flinches, and I assure him he is not the target of my displeasure. (For this, anyway – what the hell is he doing with his monitor?) My curses are directed to how overly complicated I’ve made things with the timeline. “What can I post NOW?!” I yell, before reassuring a frightened Compy that it’s a rhetorical question.

So this is how I’m rectifying the situation. With an extremely verbose (sorry) disclaimer that the following posts will be completely and utterly out of sync.

Because I’m on Audrey Time. Always.

Posted at 02:32 ATA


Audrey starts a blog!

There is a reason I’ve steered clear of creating an online presence. What is a blog if not a public journal? Aren’t journals meant to be private? Does anyone really need to know what I’m thinking, feeling or eating at any moment? If I may be so impolite: Who gives a fat flying fig?

However, Mr. X keeps lecturing me. “Work on your brand! Create an online presence! How are you not on social media?! Get on it gurl*! Do blogging! You’re good at it and/or I’m tired of all your e-mails! Let someone else enjoy** your clever writing for a change!”

*I may be paraphrasing. 

**More paraphrasing.

Very well, Mr. X, I’m caving! I will blog! I will tell EVERYONE that I’m drinking an iced tea as I write this and I will post pictures of cats! No… I won’t. You don’t own me, internet. I will be that one weirdo who posts pictures of bats. RABBATS. RABBITS! Like this one:


That I doodled for JB. (He loved it***!)

***I like speaking for others! They become so complimentary!!

I hope you’ll join me on this public/private journey, and maybe enjoy these posts, and maybe even interact with me in the comments section, which I am cautiously leaving open until I become inundated with death threats over that rabbit, which would be a totally reasonable**** reaction.

****I am employing irony for humour. Please don’t take it literally. I literally will explode.