The Unbearable Tug of Blandness

Don’t tell anyone, but I went to Olive Garden last night for dinner. In a mall. And I chose it, of my own free will.

Some of the fire aftereffects I get, and some I don’t. I get the non-attachment thing, I get the badassness, I get the anger at the insurance companies, I get the fear. But I don’t yet quite understand my sudden desire for blandness.

Mmm. Comfort bear.
Mmm. Comfort bear.

I couldn’t eat vegetables for the first week. I wanted to exist on pure dairy fat alone. (I think I did last night; Christine, my friend hosting me this week, fed me Italian burrata and caprese and I have never tasted anything so good). All I want is comfort and convenience. I even love my new Mickey Mouse doll the Red Cross gave me.

Last night, I leaned my head into Christine’s pantry. One of the first items my nose picked up was her chili sea salt. Who would have thought that few things smell as much like a burning home than chili sea salt? I had to hold myself steady to keep from losing it.

I try to go into the pantry a couple of times a day now, just to smell that smell. When the worst of it is over, I want to host a beach bonfire. I try to throw at least one or two every year, and just had one of the most memorable birthdays of my life on Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Again, be sure not to tell anyone, but when I was 10, I fell off my bike and tore up my face pretty badly. To this day, I can’t ride a bike.

I don’t want to lose bonfires, too.

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