Release the pressure that builds within...

In the last few days, I've gone from Orange County to Palms to El Segundo to Long Beach to Manhattan Beach to Silver Lake to Long Beach (again) to the Valley to Hollywood to Orange County to Disneyland (technically in OC, but another world entirely) to Huntington Beach, back to the South Bay/Westside.

Somehow, I believe I've managed to avoid Los Angeles, true Los Angeles, entirely.

Even with missing that integral part of this area, being back over on the Westside is a bit of a shock. Tan and toned bodies, surfer shorts and bleach blondes. I forget this stuff too often, don't take it seriously, to be honest. It feels so much like these people are enclosed in this one place, it's rare to see them anywhere else.

I wonder if they're under quarantine.

... ... ...

I keep forgetting if I've eaten or not. The go-go-go that my life has become doesn't lead a lot of room for food, or at least a lot of room for remembering food. Lunchbreak hit, grabbed some coffee, drove back to the office trying to remember if I had eaten breakfast, my body providing no clues to that mystery, a vague memory of chowing down a half-bowl of applesauce in the kitchen, pacing on the white tile in my rush to get going, though I don't know if that was today or last week. The smell of bananas in my desk reminded me I should probably eat, tossed down most of one, then had a couple of cashews while in the car. I need to start planting food for myself so I remember to eat. My father looked at me Saturday morning and semi-jokingly asked if I was leaning towards anorexica these days. I tend to consume more coffee than food of late. Probably should pick up a multi-vitamin to go with my fish oil.

... ... ...

Started reading Rollins' new book (no, I haven't finished East of Eden yet, though I'm still loving it, I've had this book in the trunk of my car for a few days now and I can hardly keep myself from it any longer). I wish he published more. I wish his online blogs weren't so reserved. I wish I could find more writers like him, people that let you muck around in their head, in their innermost thoughts. I value that more than anything when it comes to writing.

I so rarely want to meet famous people (though I've already met him and briefly spoken with him, some months back), so rarely care what they're up to or what they're doing.

But there you go. My mini star-obsession, my hope that there are others out there obsessed with strength and improvement, who keep to themselves and write and rage, who travel and explore cities by themselves, who read too much, write too much, and live in their own heads.

Back to work.