I haven’t posted in a long time. Mostly it’s because nothing interesting is happening in my life, plus I’ve had some harsh Half Truth critics tell me that they think it’s a literary cop out to talk about being fat and working out. (To which, I kind I want to point out that if their references to American lit cover my blog, they may need to reevaluate everything.)

So, due to these people, you’ve all suffered the misfortune of not getting to learn about my most recent gym adventures since joining The Sports Club LA, becoming a fake jogger, or the time that I made a detour to Mass General whilst running, just because I saw my life flash before my jogging eyes. That’s right. No more fat kid stories for you.

This time of no gym-blogging has led me to discover other exploitable shortcomings in my personality, as well as my physical self. It’s been a downright joy for the hubs. Just when I stopped standing naked in front of the full length and doing the fat dance, I’ve started holding up paint chips to my stomach to see whether I’m Ivory, Ecru, or Mother of Pearl. *Sigh*

Truthfully, if it’s not one thing, it’s another, and this time of year is basically high heat time for painful self discovery, bitter internal organizing, and reflecting on how far you’ve deviated from the person everyone hoped you’d become. I for one like to stop drinking in January, mostly because I feel like it makes the process more real. A lot like women who birth children with no drugs. Or that time I went off meds right before mom and dad decided they weren’t compatible. No sense in being in pain if it’s not completely unbearable.

Fortunately, this time of sober (pun intended) reflection has also freed up oodles of time for chatting on the phone, sending text messages that I will remember, and discovering how many people I only like when I’m drunk. I’ve reconnected with some old friends, and I’ve even set my sites on making myself a Godmother by 2010. Loftty, I know, but I’m just that good.

During a recent conversation with my longest, dearest, and most enduring (and endearing) friend, wherein I was describing my personal disdain and distaste for coffee and the way people consume it, I realized that I was going off on a useless tangent. Why I was allowing other people’s coffee habits to consume such an excited portion of my day made me a little nervous about who I was, and what the fuck was wrong with me. I did some strategic backpedaling, acknowledging to said friend that I was crazy and needed to shut up, when she said the most horrifying thing:

” I still like to hear your theories.”

OMFG.

Immediately, sitting at my desk, picture of my cat on my desktop, tea to my right, odd stuffed animal thing on my left, I realized I didn’t like myself. Theories? I have theories? I’m a theorizer? I fucking hate people like me.

Look, it’s never been a secret that I have a polarizing personality, and while I understand that it’s hard for people to accept my beauty without feeling self conscious, I’ve always felt as though allowing people to hate you for something you cant help is noble. They are sick. Jealousy is consuming them. Let it go.

But knowing that the personality that you have honed and perfected your entire life, the personality you controlled creation of.. now that’s cause to stick your head in an oven.

To make matters worse, I thought back over the last week to see if I could remember any other “theories” I’d shared.

And now I feel like I can’t speak with people. The iCaroline is a constant theorizer. Got a problem? I can think of a reason for it, as well as solution. For an extra dollar I’ll even stage the scene for you, give you dialog, and post facto phone support. Need to figure out a friend or colleague? Give me 20 minutes and I’ll have a psychographical profile concocted of nothing but my own bullshit meanderings.

I sound like a party gem.

Next stop is bullish femintist with a taste of for DADAist era literature and paintings with no faces to indicate oppression.

Fucking shoot me.