Sunday, December 04, 2005

In which Angeltiger knits and gibs

A few days ago, I quit smoking. This has left my brain in an addled, chemically deprived state which resembles nothing so much as cork and which, strangely enough, seems to facilitate both of the pursuits we intend to cover on this blog. Since last Wednesday, my schedule reads something like: (1) stay asleep as long as possible to avoid horrible, rage-inducing desire for cigarette; (2) get up and inhale two cups of coffee to satisfy poor, poor jonesing stimulant receptors; (3) knit until cat-like attention span forbids further knitting; (4) create maximum mayhem in San Andreas (yes, yes, the game is aeons old by now, but the thought of having to develop my driving skill over many hours while still taking crap about the abs and sartorial imperfections I couldn't yet improve was simply too much for me last fall). Repeat steps three and four until rage-inducing desire for nicotine sends me back to bed.

Possibly because my processing faculties are somewhat lacking at the moment, I can't decide which activity is more satisfying. I started knitting and continue to enjoy it primarily because it's a craft. It can be evaluated objectively (viz, are all the fingers on the glove, does the sweater fit, are the stitches even, etc.), but it's also wonderfully mindless and tactile (play with a Blue Sky Alpacas Bulky for a few minutes and try to walk out of the store without a hank--first cuddle's free), perfect for my befuddled and loopy state.

However, the above is making me sound a little too Zen-Master, because I'm enjoying starting riots in front of my safe house in Los Santos just about as much as I'm enjoying checking projects off that pesty Holiday Frag List. There is that whole "rage-inducing desire for cigarette" problem. Addictively soft and fuzzy is all well and good when one's body is not in a state of loopy, moronic, uncoordinated shock, but for the loopy, moronic, uncoordinated shock, I'll take the crotch rocket and machine pistol.

At least for now. Five minutes hence, the cat-like attention span may've rendered the whole point moot by knocking me unconscious on the sofa again.


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