Letting It Melt In

I suppose 2026 is off to a strong, confident start. Tonight’s dinner is teriyaki beef Maruchan Yakisoba—yum, MSG, my toxic little situationship. If this year has a flavor, it’s sodium-forward with notes of regret and comfort.

The morning and early afternoon were devoted to my favorite form of meditation: laying in bed in that erotic liminal space between asleep and awake, where time has no meaning and productivity fears go to die. Somewhere in that fog, my new roommate confirmed my long-held suspicion that I sleep-talk with absolutely no supervision or adult oversight. I forgot to mention this to my psychiatrist at our appointment this afternoon, which feels like a missed opportunity.

What I did mention is my growing concern around focus and attention—specifically, my inability to direct either where I want them to go. She’s referring me to a provider here in New Britain who can run proper testing to determine whether I belong to the elite, misunderstood club of adults who somehow unlocked ADHD later in the game. Rare. Exotic. Built different.

The latter half of my evening was spent tidying my sleeping chambers. All the laundry I washed on Christmas Eve at my father’s house has finally been folded and put away. Everything now has a place. The chaos has been subdued. I am deeply, spiritually satisfied. Order does something to me.

This whole “letting go and letting God” thing, however, remains… challenging. The rent debt hovering above me like an unskippable cutscene is hard to ignore, especially when the consequences rhyme with homelessness. While I’m sure I could pull off homeless chic with the right layering, I would prefer not to die a popsicle.

The roomie and I hit an NA meeting tonight. Attendance—including me—was five. Which honestly? Ideal. Small groups mean longer shares, fewer platitudes, and no one giving you the “wrap it up” hand signal when you’re just getting to the good part.

Mid-paragraph interruption: I became suddenly and urgently aware that a chonky slice of coconut pound cake, microwaved and drowned lovingly in Kerrygold butter, was not a want but a need. The sweet, buttery perfume now filling the room is obscene. I am moments away from stuffing it directly into my pie hole.

Tomorrow’s agenda is officially listed as “undecided,” which is both a threat and a promise. The rest of tonight will include cautiously replying to a sketchy Tinder broad, consuming this nommy yum yum, and watching Fugget About It on Hulu like the cultured intellectual I am.

Is there something you want to see me do?

Something funny?

Something intellectual?

Something that makes you pause for half a second and think, “…no, that can’t be what he means.”

I’m accepting creative task suggestions. Maybe I’ll entertain yours. Shoot me an email at misha@spicymisha.com with the quoted text as the subject line and we’ll see where things lead.

And finally, a big shout-out to mystery human Erika for the delightful CashApp surprise earlier today. Happy New Year to you too—you really know how to get a man’s attention.