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The worst thing about having a sugar addiction is that the joy for indulging it is always a potently inferior feeling, when compared to the despair of not having it.

Since banning large quantities sugar from my regular diet, every store is a temptation, every candy bar a grim reminder of what I'm denying myself. And yet, what is this snack I long for? A quick tasty treat, gone in a couple minutes. Brief sugar high, one that occasionally makes me erratic, somewhat shaky, and quick to anger. Occasionally brings a taste of euphoria. Possibly affects my sleep. The list goes on as to why these things are bad for me, why I can't stomach them the way I used to when I was a kid (or hell, were they bad for me even when I was younger?)

The worst part about it is that I've wanted to start cutting back from sugar for a long time. I'd promised myself I'd do it someday, right after feeling mildly dissatisfied with munching on that dollar-seventy-five chocolate thing from the gas station. And yet, this is what's behind all of my promises... this is the intent which now makes me seek out sugar-free gum, or lather expensive apple butter, courtesy of my dear mother, onto my toast. I need to fool my brain into thinking it's indulging itself or it doesn't stop - and even that doesn't work very well.

The knowledge of my family genetics has been like a shadow over me - genetic predisposition to diabetes. The thought that the things I deny myself, the things I desperately want are my, to quote a particularly histrionic song featuring Sting, clanging bells of doom. If I don't control my urges, I will kill myself on these things, or put myself down for medication during and after every meal - a breaking down of my bodily functions curtailed only by the advances of modern medicine.

But that's only an echo in my thoughts, a guilty whisper in my head after I've indulged, and sometimes during. It never occurs when I want the bloody things, which I suppose is the point. Hard to think of those pretty litlte round beans as harmful when their very appearance promotes fun and games and tastiness.

As I speak, I'm drinking green tea for my morning brew - a change from my usual cup, black tea with sugar or honey. I've had to cut both sugar and honey from my diet as much as possible - only get as much as nine cups of sugar a day, which is the maximum amount the male human body can absorb before it begins converting it all into fat. Nine cups, when the average person has about twenty-two cups a day. And I'm only beginning to realize how many products have sugar in them...

I am officially in possession of far too many games. More on that later on. Have to get ready to put on the pretense of making myself look presentable for bicycling in the outside world. Talking of which, this article, linked from the journal of my good friend the Hedonist, has been haunting my brain for some time. Right now, I'm at standard social geek-levels of hygeine, which is to say I let myself deteriorate and catch myself just in time so I do not horrify my roommates and the outside world. What would it take to discipline myself? The worth in trying is unquestionable, but would I miss my casually lazy standards in regards to looking presentable? Would I long for a simpler time when I lazed about in shorts and a t-shirt, unmentionable odors wafting into the ether from my person?

...Actually, that sounds like something I would laugh at in embarrassment in further years ahead. Oh dear.

Signing off.
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So today I perused the cluster dorms at Uvic, in a bid to scope out the possibilities for living there. I like them - they share many similiarities with my first apartment, yet with a lot more in the way of a supporting framework: $540 a month, utilities all paid for, laundry machines close by; a dishwasher, if a shitty one by all accounts, and a living space. Bike lockers, private cubbyholes, smaller room but with a supplied desk and furniture. Students all around, some noisy, some hideous to live with, but mostly agreeable according to my guide. Have to get in on the housing situation pronto seeing as it's been out for a month. Giving notice to my landlady this Saturday and seeing if I can use my neurological diagnosis for some leverage in the race for housing.

I am at the library in a bid to condemn the parrot for a couple more hours of desolation, screeching and crying in a house with no answer, with no one to respond to its demand for social comfort. I take immense demonic pleasure in knowing that there's a very good chance that the landlady has not returned, and that neurotic winged devil now writhes in Kafka-esque loneliness and heartbreak - a fitting punishment for depriving me of yet one more hour of blissful slumber. And in this chair, upon this table I write and am content, though the library is awash with primary school students freshly unleashed from their institutionalized educational facilities. (Also, some of the library employee are quite pretty, which pleases my sex-fixated mental capacities.)

Now I have to write out that application. Can't spend too long captivated by the internet, I have work to do, and approximately three hours before my computer battery runs out or I find an outlet close by... (hey, there's one.) The headphones I brought with me are too small for the computer, which makes me sad, but oh well, I'll do without. And I have a couple things to write up, but those are tied to my roleplaying hobbies and are not essential to my long-term future goals.

I'm using my bike for a lot more things, so much that setting aside a weekly allowance for bus money is no longer fruitful. It is no longer convenient, but rather a convenience, a luxury for cloudy weather and tired legs. My bike can beat traffic, it can go at the speed I set for it, and it does not wait for other passengers. On good days it can outrun buses or at least keep up with them, and indeed it serves as a potent motivational tool to beat the transit system on my own body's stamina. The private trainer is goading my body to a miraculous recovery, though I dread our thrice-weekly sessions.

The weather outside is rather ridiculous. At first I wondered if it was worth it to ride with a sweatshirt considering the warm weather, and just as I leave Uvic I feel a couple droplets of water land on me. Only a couple minutes later I find myself under a gloomy raincloud, beating down on my skin and clothes and computer bag, and I briefly glance uncomprehendingly towards the sky. What the fuck, Victoria? I think to myself. Is the Tweed Curtain in Oak Bay somehow affecting our weather forecasts? Are we trying to be London weather?!

It looks sunny now, but that is hardly a guarrantee. Somewhere out there storm clouds brew in anticipation of amiable young bikers like myself. I only have to step outside for them to seek me out and drench me further. There is no escape.

Anyway, work to do. Signing off.
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Dear god, it's the morning.

Instant coffee and reheated bun with some kind of meat in it. Okay.

Feel somewhat nauseous, but that may be something to do with the fact that I've only gotten four hours. These days I usually get woken up by other things, whether by the landlady, roommates shouting "Bye!!" a little too loud, or the goddamn fucking evil avian shitbag denizen of horror and contempt puking and screaming within the confines of a living room that is impossible to live in, particularly when the television is on and the landlady is watching while good, decent individuals are trying to eat in there. Honestly, my lack of watching means my innoculation to commercials and their effects is petering off, and the Folger's humming commercial sounds akin to a funeral dirge in my head.

But anyway. I'm listening to Soundgarden on my kick-ass iPod speakers, now that I finally found my iPod under my bed. Or between the bed and the wall. Things like that. It's wiping clean the hideous commercials and the slightly creepy-looking Globe and Mail correspondant in Rome reporting on crimes that he may or may not participate in. (Clear fantasy on my part, but dear god his oily face and terrible hair and the fact that the communication lagged slightly so that there was five seconds when he'd stare at your face with empty, bleak eyes before responding with a pre-programmed answer)

Gotta keep writing. Gotta keep writing. Lately, when I imagine myself sitting down writing, I imagine it all coming down in some alien moon vernacular: "Rrghlvfmrh aghrhragraffagh" or something akin to keyboard smashing. Of course, I know if I plop down and just start writing then something will come out. Something's bound to - my mind, like my anus, inevitably excretes garbage that occasionally has pearls of wisdom or indications of my present circumstances.

Mornings are nice, actually. The day is always rushed when you wake up around 11:00 or 1:00 PM. At eight, I've got a bit of a break to organize my thoughts, clean my room, get things in perspective. Sleep would be nice, but really, things to do today. My counseler will understand. (Well, no, she'll dig at me for my horrendous sleep pattern which is the only thing she hasn't made me kick yet, but oh well.)

My tream (just typed that - trail + stream?!) of excreting thoughts is at an end. I should probably get an hour's rest. Or something.

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I hate missing appointments. It makes going to the next one so much bloody harder.

But it is doing me some good. So.

You know what I hate? Having to choose between hiding in my bedroom till the last minute or braving the kitchen, getting food, and enduring that horrible parrot screaming over and over to be let out, to be let out, in an unending series of screeches that if exacerbated, turn into angry squawks repeated in a cacophony of noise, accompanied by its swinging shaker and the bell that it attacks with its beak. There's very little I can do to combat the irritation I feel for that wretched thing.

But hey, I'm out, and I even gave him a little trip out, so I'm not in too terrible a mood today. Also, I found out that he's absolutely terrified of my wooden sword, and will willingly step back into his cage if properly threatened with it. Not a bad thing to remember!

Can't write much more, but I figure I needed to make some kind of update. Not for others, for me. I need to keep writing if I want to be a writer - rather self-evident, that.
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Ironic that my dear mother's trawling through my old entries at a time when my well of inspiration for writing appears to have dried up.

Today's a bit of a catch up day. Catch up on sleep, catch up on laundry, catch up on returning things, catching up on writing. Get myself back together again. Feeling a little bit bleary-eyed and exhausted as I write this, probably due to sleeping in too much. Also have a horny, molting, anxious parrot to deal with - my penance for staying home most of the day.

My university application is in, finally, finally. Now all I have left to do is exercise, find a trainer, get myself into the form I always wanted to be in before going to GIFTS. Feel better about myself that way. Also square things out with Aikido, get on the level there. Maybe try my hand at writing in actual articles, about stuff I want to write about.

And I have to resolve the fact that I'm putting down four years of my life for this, and ask myself if it's something I'm that passionate about. If I were younger, I'd have said yes, unanimously so, but I wasn't in my twenties around that time. I was connected more with my own inner being, and I've drifted away from it ever since. This really is a truly banal age, to be drifting from the things that made me feel magical.

I just want to keep sleeping, in a way. Just lie down and forget the day, but I can't do that. I can't let myself fall into that again. Have to stay productive, if only to keep myself moving, keep myself active in some fashion. Not become stagnant.

Lost the thread. Signing off.
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