The litmus test continues.
There truly is no rest for the wicked.
I’ve got an entire daily regiment planned out for me, as if I’m incapable of doing one myself. Naturally, I resent it, with great umbrage. So, I took myself out and bought a new vape. “Mango Twist”, Lost Mary. It tastes fleshy and ripe, as the synthetic chemicals in it are intended to.
Being the ersatz housewife that I am, I took it upon me to do a load in the dishwasher and two (and now three, considering how my walking clothes are now permeated with sweat after a half a mile walk to the tobacco store) loads of laundry.
As independent as I am, I chafe under restriction. I get the whole minutiae of Sober Living, but there are certain things that wreck me. Now I might be hit with a “reverse curfew” if a job or a volunteer position isn’t in place.
To say “I want out” is an understatement. I understand certain aspects of this, but the Draconian Measures are stifling. Thank God I scarfed down a Pop Tart when I did, prior to my anxiety forcing my appetite away.
Still, I find escape in meaningful pursuits outside of the Big Brother-esque mandates. Escaping away to read a few chapters of a book, a treat if my appetite decides to grace me with its presence. I even bought those microwaveable mug cakes that I like.
I suppose after this never-ending litmus test I shall have accrued a great deal of character, but at what cost?
I must remind myself of the little things, the little freedoms, that accentuate the curve of what joy I can mine from a day.
Nightingale 
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