Careful What You Witch

Belatedly rendered confessions of remorse --not for abandoning my recovery playbook, but, rather, for neglecting to maintain a regular journal feed in this, my second half-year in your company.  It has been precisely one month to the day from my last update --an unplanned coincidence-- and residue of self-reproach has been cumulatively settling in rear corridors of my mind.  I have been stubbornly, costively withholding new entries until I might provide substantive evidence of progress, but because my journey of self-improvement is deliberately gradual, definitive points of progress are difficult to reference.  I have, as you know, been incrementally adjusting to an additional pound or two and been encouraged to observe minor indications that my face might be on its way towards "rounding-out".  (Currently, one can still view the muscles in my jaw when they are pulled taught in consternation, flexing under the skin should I grind my molars.)  I would most like to reverse the rolling creases that stretch and rise in puckered seams across my brow, yet these might simply be an irreversible character trait earned from a young lifetime of pursed frowns.  Botulinum toxin might someday level these lines, but most experts point to healthy fats as the natural remedy.  At any rate, I could sooner afford a witch's brew than the needle of a cosmetic doctor, and my pride would certainly be wounded to entertain such artificial measures in the pursuit of beauty.  (Incidentally, my hair is too thin to support bangs as an effective disguise; its strands, while slippery, remain limp and wispy from prolonged deficiencies in protein, iron, and other essential minerals.)  For these reasons and others, I harbor a more cooperative posture towards weight gain.

Worrywart:  A pouting pagan summons the author's default expression.

In the past handful of weeks I have summoned a yen for more expressly creative ventures, namely collage and watercolor illustration; these stationary distractions keep me comfortably occupied in periods I might otherwise devote to exercise or other forms of physical strain.  Art also reduces ennui, not to mention the shame that circles through my system in regular chorus with blood and air.  It provides a faint sense of identity and accomplishment as I desperately search for reasons to rise from the engagement of my pillow.  This  is most sorely needed as the seasons turn a corner; the threat of winter accelerates rapidly in the Northeast, carrying on its broad back early-afternoon sunsets, crippling frosts, and, for many, depleted brio.  I hope to sell these paintings, primarily to fund a life less dependent on my parents' dime.  Should this plan fail, the better pieces will, at worst, contribute to a growing portfolio that might somehow help in solidifying a fruitful career in the service of myself or others.  Direct your attention here, dear readers, for I plan to share three new images of recent completion.  Until then, don't lose your glasses when bobbing for apples.  How else might you judge my work?