Unfortunate for what many professionals would call my “sanity” and “self-image”, that in my social emptyness I’m left to the custom device of thinking of my own behavioral traits, a task that then forces me mind to be like a large, multi-tier cinnamon roll, slowly unraveling itself from the feeble attempts at trying to simplify nonchalant and mundane events and realizations. My frosting is not cinnamon; I am, unfortunately, not made of delicious, creamy sugar, but instead: sweet ‘n sour jalapeño paste with a touch of oily fish (Louisiana reference).
It’s easy to recommend therapies to others, even without the “L”: aromas, audio, hydro, Psoas stretch, and even electric; however, these recommendations don’t seem to help me as effectively. It’s most likely because my most effective therapy, for someone of my tendencies and personality, is touch therapy. Not necessarily massage, but very surely the embrace of someone else. A warm hand on my upper trapezius to turn the rhomboids into melted butter. To clarify: rhomboids are very tense almost all the time, and turning off their active tone can be very time consuming.
My duress is because I’ve given something to people, and after several months no one’s ever used it. It’s not heartbreak, that I’m certain to the validity of a dictionary, but most likely profound disappointment.
It doesn’t help that presently I’ve cold symptoms of a hypersecreting nasal passage and occasional sneezes just as I end the subacute stage of a cold sore.
I usually just tighten my eye and distract myself with amusements and flats, but my skull’s beginning to warp into something less than my own expectations for myself.
