Hunter, what be thou seeking?
Tourist, where art thou going?
Hermit, who art thou waiting for?
What once was there may be no more!
It has been a very, very long while since I last wrote a blog entry for no other reason than a sudden change in my life. This poor sorcerer, Jean R. Mavi, has begun working for a living. While I'd hate to point out that I'm still freeloading in my parents' abode, it was, all in all, an acute change in my life.
Where before, I would have easily "encouraged" my parents to buy unnecessary luxuries like books, cake, lotion or perfume, I am now acutely and painfully aware of the weight I have to support. I've been hearing lots of comments on how I must've gained weight but I'm sure you know that is not what I meant. This adverse turn of events, however, have made it far easier for me to recognize I have a problem and, as some chipper optimistic buckets of silly sunshine say, the first step to solving a problem is to recognize (or acknowledge) its existence.
For one, I never really believed that I was spending too much for, when I was still a student or job-hunter, I relied immensely on the coffers of my parents. Having my own stash now, however, made it painfully easier to keep track of my expenses. Yes, dear reader, I am now aware that I am a shopaholic food-tripper.
My work takes me in quite close proximity to several malls, as a matter of fact, they're all a stone's throw away. Granted, you really need powerful arms and a stone of dire lightness and infinitesimal size. Still, the trouble lies in the fact that the shortest route home involves passing through one of these malls to emerge at the highway on the other side.
For people without my affliction, this is as easy as a walk in the park. For me, it was pure torture. For the first few weeks, I endure the tempting calls of the, previously, inanimate objects on sale. Someone must've released Allspark's energy for the cakes began to call, in a sing-song voice, "Come, Mavi. You know you want to eat me!"
Perfume bottle would assault my nostrils with their gaseous tendrils, drawing me near as though saying, "If you leave your money on this counter, you will feel as light as I do." Various food items would, undoubtedly, hiss in their sizzling voice, "Oooh, sssomething sssoundsss hot, sssmellsss tasssty and looksss appetizzzing." Books will whisper in their papery voices, "Mpph-ppph-kpp-phh," which, for the life of me, I don't understand. It's probably an invitation for me to buy and read them to figure out exactly what they meant.
Oookay, so maybe I got a little too creative (or, perhaps, terribly unoriginal) with the Allspark stuff. However, I kid you not (or, in the words of some vulgar marines with unsavory vocabulary, "I $#!+ you not") when I claim it takes tremendous willpower, self-restraint, mana and hitpoints to resist the temptation. It is more difficult doubly so when one of my alter-ego's pipe in, "Hey, I'm not a monk or ascetic, so to hell with moderation," completely unaware that hell is, so far, an unmoderated place. (Apparently, the admin wanted full control)
Despite the cool air-conditioning, I cannot help secreting beads of sweat on my temples, my neck and my torso whenever I stay far too long in such a horrid place. I often find myself willing my feet to move faster, that these trials be put behind me quite sooner. Praised be the merciful goddess I don't own a credit card or I might not have endured these temptations for so long!
To you, unlucky reader who had the benevolent heart to wade through my flood of petty troubles, I thank you. I do regret, however, not being able to offer those in similar situations any advice. I find myself as completely in the dark as the rest of our suffering brethren.
