much too much tutu much

The new roommate cooking hamburgers in my kitchen in my pots using my plates. "I hope it doesn't gross you out when I eat meat." She said yesterday evening when we were sitting around the table talking. As if the five pound tube of ground beef didn't bother me sitting in the grocery cart nestled against a bag of doritos and a box of blueberry mini-muffins. No, the eating of the meat is not the part that grosses me out. It might be your revulsion to turkey vultures that is weird not my fascination with their lopsided flight. Now it is 38* outside and my bedroom window is thrown wide, I have a towel lodged under my bedroom door, and I can't leave my room because the smell of char is too much for my nervous system, and yet it is not the eating of the meat that bothers me. I did a handstand for thirty seconds, I did thirty push ups, I did a will squat with A-O of the Oxford English Dictionary balanced on my lap for a minute and a half, I still feel my spirit pressing out of my skin hovering outside of my body unwilling to inhabit that moment . A prisoner of my own making, I sit in my room, grateful that after a week of intermittent non-existence the internet has decided to function properly so at least I have an immediate distraction. I looked at 44 photos of Kate Moss spanning 16 years. She is an alien and I cannot decide if she is beautiful. That's all. Abide in temperance.