Steaked in the heart. Home is where the heart is… steak is home?

Can’t sleep. Once again.

Oh well, at the very least it’s doing wonders for my writing productivity. Silver linings. Honestly I think my body is reacting to the revels of steak and a blowjob day. I haven’t consumed that much red meat (oh so phallic) in many moons. My girlfriend and I specifically went to a nice butcher and bought two gorgeous cuts of steak. At about $10 each, they were of grand size and quality. Long and rectangular, 2 minutes in the frying pan each side for a sumptuous rare consistency. We followed instructions and surely enough, absolutely stunning. A crispy coating, giving way to a soft, velvety interior. Having been at least several months since I last had a steak, each slice was like savouring a piece of divinity. I don’t know if Heaven is a place, but if it is I know what they serve for dinner. I couldn’t even finish the whole steak, so I packed some away for later with a heap of sweet potato fries and fried onions.

I guess my bowels wanted to savour it too, because my whole body feels taxed in moving the steak on to its next stage of existence. I feel bloated, I’m having trouble regulating my temperature. All in all I’m ill equipped for slumber, coupled with the cold I already have. Oh, the drugs help though. Gods almighty the drugs help. I don’t know that I’ve truly appreciated medical science in the same capacity. The absence of sinus pain, sore throat, stuffiness, sneezing and bleary eyes is a miracle if ever I’ve witnessed one. There is a god and its name is pseudoephedrine. I don’t know that this really is the first time I’ve felt this burning love for medical science, but more a reflection on how easy it is to forget past afflictions when you’re symptom free.

I don’t know if that’s all that’s keeping me awake. My flatmate moved out yesterday and into his new place. I’m really happy for him, he was a great guy to have around and impressed he actually owns his own place now. He’s a friend, so it’s not like I’m not gonna see him any more, I just won’t see him in the room across from me. What this really means though is that I’ve got two weeks with the flat to myself. The whole place, just me and my things. It’s liberating, exhilarating, emancipating? It’s quite choice. I can walk around naked, leave the place precisely how I like it and not have to worry about considering someone else when coming or going. I love having someone else around, but sometimes it’s nice to be selfish, if only for a small while.

Sitting here in the kitchen at 6am though, it dawns on me just how much stuff I’ve accumulated. Nobody else lives here. Everything in this apartment outside of the staple utilities is something I own. I’m sitting at a table with chairs, flanked by a couch and a rug. There’s a coffee table, shelves and a whole kitchen full of things. Microwave, toaster, kettle. I have a blender for fuck’s sake (but not for fucking. That’s not a place for a penis). The fridge/freezer is stocked. The cupboards overrunneth with tinned fish and spices. I’ve got a bed, dresser, computer desk and desktop computer. Within my closet hangs clothing enough to fill a year’s worth of wearing.

For these two weeks, I have a house. I’m living a life in which my home life can function without the assistance of anyone else. I’m an adult or something. Yes. Me. Really. These material goods are just things, but they symbolise that by virtue of accruing, at some level I’ve innately decided to make Toronto my home. I mean, I knew it, but did I really know it? I’ve spent so many years being nomadic, terrified of putting down roots, knowing I’d have to leave eventually. Now? I’m here. I’m home. More so, I’m happy. Was that what I was afraid of all along?

No wonder I can’t sleep.

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