Mario Villalobos


Continuing from yesterday’s post, I haven’t had any fun today. It doesn’t mean today was a bad day, per se; it was quite the normal day. I wore my very sexy green button up collared shirt with my sleeves rolled up, a pair of brown trousers with a black belt, and my blue Nike shoes. I’ve been really mixing up my color choices, and I really like the results. If someone would’ve told me a year ago what my preferred color choices for clothes would be, I would not have mentioned the colors I just mentioned. They’re subdued colors, for sure, but I used to be a guy that always wore blue jeans and black shirts. I’m evoooooooolving as a person, and I like it. Couple all that with my blue silicone iPhone case, green smart cover for my iPad, my grey denim and light brown corn leather messenger bag, my colorful inspirational posters on my wall, and my bookcase organized by color, and we’ve got a life where color really affects life’s texture.

I write about this today because I really have nothing else to write about. To be honest, I’m growing super weary of writing a daily entry. I’ll be hitting the halfway mark in a little over a week, and I don’t know if I can last another 180 days. I’m super fucking strict with myself, and any hint of failure causes me to hate myself. Not forever, but that short amount of time where I do hurts a lot. I don’t feel like the same person I was five months ago. I feel different. I feel better. I feel like I can buy a bottle of red wine again and drink it responsibly. I feel like losing all those people I lost was good for me because they sucked big old hairy man balls, and I’m better off without them. I feel like it’s okay if I eat out once a week, just to have some fun and unwind a bit. I do a lot every day, and I need to reward myself sometimes. Yes, sometimes I think the work is its own reward, but the work doesn’t taste good or make me feel like puking at 3 AM in the morning outside of a bar with six-shooters on the door.

At the same time, I have doubt. I don’t know if I should reward myself. That’s so wrong now that I’ve seen it written out, but it rings true to me. I have to be strict with myself so I can be sure I don’t stray from the path I’ve built. People will say that one drink won’t hurt me, but it’s not the drink I’m worried about; it’s the fact that I let myself give in to something I wanted to abstain from forever. One drink means I became lax with myself, and that affect my whole life. I take a drink now, maybe I don’t write tomorrow, and maybe I stop working out and start eating crappy Dairy Queen burgers again. Maybe I stop weighing myself every Monday morning, and a few months later, after washing away all the good work I’ve built up in the past five months, I decide to weigh myself again and see that I’ve gained twenty pounds and all I want to do is just shoot myself.

This is ridiculous, and I know it’s ridiculous, and even my mind thinks it’s ridiculous, but that emotional part of my brain makes me believe in all of it. That part of my brain is so strong that I find it super tough to ignore it and just be. So, for now, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll slowly start letting myself do things I’ve been preventing myself from doing, and I’ll try hard to see if I can make it work. Otherwise, I don’t know.

I don’t know.