After leaving SJDC, I did about the same thing tonight as I did last night: wandered around windowshopping, treated Barnes & Noble as a library (hey, they put in the comfy chairs) and blazed through books I would never buy. I had dinner at Pacific Marketplace for the second night in a row, and for the second night in a row I quite deliberately ordered something I'm vastly fond of that isn't on my diet. (This morning was a new low mark, at 293. Not what I expected after Illinois.) This is a fine foundation for a Really Bad Habit, so I think I had better not eat there for a while. At least not alone.
This is partly to do with feeling alienated from home, from the whole concept of home. Housework is back to its former status of being roundly ignored (although some habits stick; cleaning isn't happening, but tidiness is about at the usual level). And partly, I think, I want to be anonymous. I don't want to be alone, because there's far too much room for thought, but I also don't want to be with people who actually see me when they look at me. Right now I don't entirely want to be me, this particular hurting thing. So I wear a little fiction instead, a role no deeper than paper, which is okay for now, but it won't stand up to real vision. It's just enough for chain coffeeshops and browsing in malls, so that's where I go when I feel this way.
T. called me this morning (which was good of him, since I'd promised I'd call him last night and I failed) and made noises about trekking out to the desert to admire the Leonids in proper darkness, which sounded intriguing. On review, however, I think Kathy and Danny and I are still on to see Harry Potter on Sunday afternoon, which isn't quite going to fit with being somewhere in the Nevada desert Sunday morning.