Breakfast of champions

Yesterday I did some cleaning. Or, to be exact, minor cleaning whose main part was to pick wine bottles and food gone bad to take it to the trash. I can't say I actually suffer from anorexia as I don't suffer. I just don't feel like eating most of the time and mommy keeps sending me food. It's a season of strawberries, green peas and such stuff which doesn't last as long as pretzels do; I do my best to eat it all up but it just doesn't work. I have barely any appetite. In my old life, I'd - oh shit, I called this awful episode of depression and work which I still fail to like 'new life'? - I'd be glad that I'm losing weight. These days, I don't really care unless the clothes get uncomfortable. I can't even bring myself to be happy that one day, I'll feel fine in general and about my weight loss. Also, no need to worry about my wine consumption, I usually have a glass in the afternoon, and half a bottle once upon a time. I just don't take the bottles away often enough. Well, my apartment is cold and wet. I went through my newest herbary acquisitions and most of them, basically all the thicker plants, dried too slowly, with chlorophyll decomposing, and turned brown. Even the green ones weren't properly dried and got more or less crinkled when exposed to air slightly less wet than the newspaper. I'm slightly pissed which is good, any emotion than sheer despair and let-me-die-now is good, and I've always prided myself for the aesthetic values of my herbary. The office is much warmer and drier, I'll press my plants here. See? The stereotype management works. Yesterday I had a shower, even washed my hair, ate four tortillas with something, herbarized for a while... well, not really, I'm still short on clean clothes, reasonable food intake and keeping sane. Today's a new day. For breakfast, I had half a glass of wine and a dose of psych meds. So it goes.