March 23rd, 2010


Like Murakami and spaghetti.

Everything I eat during the week is alone-food. There was the hardboiled egg at 4:30 this morning before heading to the hospital for first shift, peeled and eaten over the sink with an old piece of wheat bread and lukewarm coffee. Later, probably leftover rice, boxed mac and cheese. Toast? Who knows.

I don't know if it has to be this way, but at the same time I like it. Creatures of routine and all that. There's a new exboyfriend in my phone book and an old "on again off again" boyfriend with whom my weekends are spent, forgetting the hermit-like habits of the work week. He's been talking about moving in together, and my life would change. Even on working days there would be foods to eat together and not in private - taco cart tamales, intimate sushi dinners, shave ice on a hot day in Balboa Park. Sometimes I think, that would be nice. It'd be nice to have him around again, to settle into the routine of "us" and not "me." And yet sometimes I think of how all I want is Shin Ramen from the microwave, or to sleep alone again.