After a long hiatus (and therapy), I've decided to start a new blog. I don't REALLY know if anyone is still reading, but if you are head on over to ilosethereforeiam.blogspot.com for new content!
Ciao!
05/09/2011
05/08/2010
Five for the price of one
-------------------------
Sex is... eluding me.
For a number of months – that I think I’ll refrain from divulging at this point – my life has been depressingly sexless. Mournfully sexless. Like I’ve unwittingly taken a vow of celibacy and some deity has been feeling particularly vindictive, my cup instead has runneth over with nausea, mind-squeezing headaches, a five month period, and of COURSE, the apparently ubiquitous inability to unclench long enough to enjoy myself.
*selection of expletives and screams*
Metaphorical blood is shooting out of my ears like a power hose.
And my hair just hates moisture in the air, of course. Makes it frizz something terrible.
*insane laughter*
-------------------------
Oh, Bear Grylls, you are the missing key to my anorexia!
In your seemingly relentless pursuit to eat your way through all the reptile, insect and arthropod families, as well as your apparent penchant for raw meat and fish, you have successfully put me off food for the remainder of my natural life.
Watching you squeeze and drink the water from elephant’s dung, from the semi-digested contents of a camel’s stomach and even your own urine out of a handy snakeskin has turned my stomach over so thoroughly that it seems to have shrivelled away to date-like proportions. Alas, I fear you may take this the wrong way, but let me be the first to assure you that I am extremely appreciative of this service you have provided me
And so, I dedicate my visible hipbones to you, Mr Grylls
Bravo.
-------------------------
That is, apart from this evening, where I crammed so much food down into my stomach, I feared I might burst at a seam and spray a revolting lumpy combination of two slices of Dominos pizza, an obscene amount of Kellogs Honey Nut Cornflakes with over a pint of milk and three heaped tablespoons of brown sugar, two packets of Quavers and three Kit-Kats all over my boyfriend and our room surrounding us.
In and out in under an hour though, I mean, I’m almost impressed.
Almost.
-------------------------
And HERE, further evidence that Croydon should be burnt off the surface of England. Surgically removed, then the surrounding area cauterized so that nothing may ever grow there again.
Well done love.
*applauds*
-------------------------
And now, for something completely fucking awesome.
My local Lush branch, in conjunction the release of a snazzy new Chameleon themed bath ballistic, are throwing a Chameleon party during store hours this weekend. There’s also a campaign by the APA against the capturing wild animals for use as pets in the west, in this case the Chameleon. Many die in transit, or die within the first year of attempted domestication apparently. Whatever.
About the cause, I am less than moved.
If I were any less interested, I might pass out.
What flutters my stomach is that I have been asked to provide face painting services for the two days. To be paid in a large bag of Lush goodies.
*shrill noise of excitement*
I absolutely fucking ADORE Lush products. For me, a bath isn’t truly a bath without bubbles and the addition of glitter.
And it’s a great opportunity to get some basic makeup artistry experience before my course starts in January. AND it MAY hopefully lead to a job working there until mid-December.
Naturally, I’m compartmentalising my nervousness and fear, but in a small cupboard in the back of my mind I am a screaming babbling mess cowering in fear of all the ways this could possibly go wrong. From me simply fucking up completely to somehow triggering a meteor strike.
But if I plan for every possible eventuality, nothing can go wrong, right?
RIGHT?
-------------------------
Sex is... eluding me.
For a number of months – that I think I’ll refrain from divulging at this point – my life has been depressingly sexless. Mournfully sexless. Like I’ve unwittingly taken a vow of celibacy and some deity has been feeling particularly vindictive, my cup instead has runneth over with nausea, mind-squeezing headaches, a five month period, and of COURSE, the apparently ubiquitous inability to unclench long enough to enjoy myself.
*selection of expletives and screams*
Metaphorical blood is shooting out of my ears like a power hose.
And my hair just hates moisture in the air, of course. Makes it frizz something terrible.
*insane laughter*
-------------------------
Oh, Bear Grylls, you are the missing key to my anorexia!
In your seemingly relentless pursuit to eat your way through all the reptile, insect and arthropod families, as well as your apparent penchant for raw meat and fish, you have successfully put me off food for the remainder of my natural life.
Watching you squeeze and drink the water from elephant’s dung, from the semi-digested contents of a camel’s stomach and even your own urine out of a handy snakeskin has turned my stomach over so thoroughly that it seems to have shrivelled away to date-like proportions. Alas, I fear you may take this the wrong way, but let me be the first to assure you that I am extremely appreciative of this service you have provided me
And so, I dedicate my visible hipbones to you, Mr Grylls
Bravo.
-------------------------
That is, apart from this evening, where I crammed so much food down into my stomach, I feared I might burst at a seam and spray a revolting lumpy combination of two slices of Dominos pizza, an obscene amount of Kellogs Honey Nut Cornflakes with over a pint of milk and three heaped tablespoons of brown sugar, two packets of Quavers and three Kit-Kats all over my boyfriend and our room surrounding us.
In and out in under an hour though, I mean, I’m almost impressed.
Almost.
-------------------------
And HERE, further evidence that Croydon should be burnt off the surface of England. Surgically removed, then the surrounding area cauterized so that nothing may ever grow there again.
Well done love.
*applauds*
-------------------------
And now, for something completely fucking awesome.
My local Lush branch, in conjunction the release of a snazzy new Chameleon themed bath ballistic, are throwing a Chameleon party during store hours this weekend. There’s also a campaign by the APA against the capturing wild animals for use as pets in the west, in this case the Chameleon. Many die in transit, or die within the first year of attempted domestication apparently. Whatever.
About the cause, I am less than moved.
If I were any less interested, I might pass out.
What flutters my stomach is that I have been asked to provide face painting services for the two days. To be paid in a large bag of Lush goodies.
*shrill noise of excitement*
I absolutely fucking ADORE Lush products. For me, a bath isn’t truly a bath without bubbles and the addition of glitter.
And it’s a great opportunity to get some basic makeup artistry experience before my course starts in January. AND it MAY hopefully lead to a job working there until mid-December.
Naturally, I’m compartmentalising my nervousness and fear, but in a small cupboard in the back of my mind I am a screaming babbling mess cowering in fear of all the ways this could possibly go wrong. From me simply fucking up completely to somehow triggering a meteor strike.
But if I plan for every possible eventuality, nothing can go wrong, right?
RIGHT?
-------------------------
01/08/2010
These are my orange toenails.
This makes me rather happy.
I have decided once more that, in lieu of a proper plan, I shall simply be happy with losses.
And presto! A new low!
The flash has made my feet look weird...
I have decided once more that, in lieu of a proper plan, I shall simply be happy with losses.
And presto! A new low!
26/07/2010
Sobriety? Pah!
Today I have mostly been napping away the harsh reality of sobriety and secretly swigging mouthfuls from the bottle of vodka in the cupboard.
But it’s okay, it’s Zubrowka Bison Grass vodka - good quality stuff.
Means it’s not pathetic. Obviously.
And I reapplied my makeup beforehand, so I wouldn’t be too much of a dishevelled mess.
Priorities, yeah?
Still tastes appropriately bitter though.
It would be wrong if it didn’t.
EDIT: Drunk+Paranoid+Midnight Walk = Ohmigod, I’m not a mess am I? I don’t look awful do I? Is it obvious that I’m wasted? Am I slurring or walking funny? Why do people keep looking at me!? Stop looking at me!
Repeat until head explodes
But it’s okay, it’s Zubrowka Bison Grass vodka - good quality stuff.
Means it’s not pathetic. Obviously.
And I reapplied my makeup beforehand, so I wouldn’t be too much of a dishevelled mess.
Priorities, yeah?
Still tastes appropriately bitter though.
It would be wrong if it didn’t.
EDIT: Drunk+Paranoid+Midnight Walk = Ohmigod, I’m not a mess am I? I don’t look awful do I? Is it obvious that I’m wasted? Am I slurring or walking funny? Why do people keep looking at me!? Stop looking at me!
Repeat until head explodes
24/07/2010
Suck it, Mother Nature
My period has seemingly fucked off for parts unkown.
After lingering like the final guest you want to hurl over the garden wall for five solid months due to a malfunctioning contraceptive implant.
Here's hoping it's permanent and I'm currently barren.
A girl can but dream...
After lingering like the final guest you want to hurl over the garden wall for five solid months due to a malfunctioning contraceptive implant.
Here's hoping it's permanent and I'm currently barren.
A girl can but dream...
23/07/2010
...
Recently, my white hot beam of rage has fallen upon a lone member of the WWE. Sputter and flicker it might, doused often by the tepid waters of apathy, but the loathing is legitimate. In fact, this new focus of my disdain has stirred a passion within me that of late, has been somewhat waterlogged and sluggish. Now, I will freely admit that on a lazy, gently stoned summer afternoon, I like little more than curling up in a comfy chair and watching frighteningly muscular, thoroughly hairless men pretend to beat the shit out of each other for my entertainment – I may be vastly misunderstanding my audience here, but I’ll inch out further on that limb and ask if anyone feels the same way? Or at least has some passing knowledge/interest in the hilarity of wrestling?
If I’m alone in my interest, as I fear I may be, this next bit will be lost on you – you can skip it if you want; I’m not here to judge.
While I cringe in embarrassment at the ridiculous depth of my hate, I’ll reveal my target shall I?
JTG
Formerly of the tag-team Cryme Tyme.
*deep cleansing breath*
Oh how I hate thee, let me count the ways.
His opening music plays – beginning with an achingly stereotypical rapped ‘Yo yo yo yo’ – and before he has even appeared, I begin to seethe. I could be accused of melodrama, but I am of the opinion that in a time where we as a human race are finally opening our minds enough to recognise gay marriages and elect a black president (FUCK. I’m not even American and I’m proud of us) JTG must be stopped.
Every black stereotype conceived in most racist of minds is embodied in this one odious individual. Black people are criminals, his character screams, black people are stupid, all black people listen to the same music, black people are all mostly illiterate and black people are violent. And the WWE encourage him, the audience eat it up, the children love it, and my skin crawls in disgust.
I will also freely admit that my knowledge of recent black history is limited – but I am willing to make the intellectual leap that this was PROBABLY not what black revolutionaries had in mind as they strove for equality. I reckon when Martin Luther King had a dream, it probably didn’t involve a young black man with a prime opportunity to set a positive example shitting all over it.
Argh.
*deep cleansing breath*
Other than that, it’s like I said – waterlogged and sluggish. My yo-yo has swung down again and taken my mood with it. There is no longer any thrill in restricting – the empty growl of my stomach does not fill with me with a sense of satisfaction and purity. I wonder/worry that what this is what awaits me after recovery. I look down at the scales and now I feel nothing, sure I no longer expect the heart squeezing feeling of a gain, but gone too is the euphoria of a good solid loss. Is this what not being ruled by your scales is?
It is turning my brain to mulch. Beige, uninteresting tapioca-like mulch. Uninspired, passionless goop.
Tapioca is disgusting.
In my more vivid wandering thoughts, I picture it dribbling sluggishly out of my ears and soaking my clothing, it collects on my shoulders then lands with a wet plop into my lap. I am unmoved, I continue to smoke and stare, hollow eyed, at the television before me as my brain drips away. I imagine it puddling around me, flowing until I am empty - a crunchy shell missing my creamy filling, the hole of a ring doughnut.
FUCK I wish I could stop thinking about food.
I’m off to bang my head against the toilet now.
16/07/2010
Severance. With rodents.
Really, with the state of my internet connection you’d think I lived in a draughty wooden shack on a hill in the middle of fucking nowhere, rather than in the centre of London. But apparently this is what Virgin Media qualifies as ‘adequate service’.
...
Today, it feels as though a mammoth weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
I feel as though I could just float away amongst the, albeit currently abundant and grey, clouds. But float away I just might. Up through the thick grey blanket, to the world of fluffy white, clear blue and warm sunlight.
But no! This is not an ED post. There have been no massively inspiring losses; in fact, I have gained just over a pound. But hey, means I get to lose it again and thus delay any possible decisions I may have to make when I reach 120lbs. Bloomin’ marvellous, I say!
But anyway, onwards!
Enough is ENOUGH is most fucking definitely ENOUGH
There will be no more food chicken.
No more half sentences with the expectation of me guessing the rest.
No more picking unnecessary fights.
No more of the same conversations over and over endlessly.
There will be no more fucking with me. No longer will I have to sit quietly as you are sympathetic and cold and uncaring towards me in the same sentence then fly into a rage when I am confused and upset. No more laying guilt onto me because my life hasn’t turned out exactly as you planned. And no fucking more leaving me in floods of hysterical tears after a thirty second phone call.
No, I haven’t just dumped the world’s worst boyfriend.
Yesterday, I dumped my father.
And it feels a lot like the relief and odd floatiness you get when you’ve been carrying a ridiculously heavy camping backpack for most of the day and finally get to definitively put it down.
But all is not as amazing as it would seem!
We have mice. Brave little bastards, considering we have two cats. And usually that would amuse me. Not enough to compel me not set traps mind you, but enough for me to not constantly wish death upon them.
That is, apart from when they munch on my clothing, heartily it would seem, considering the number of holes in my favourite grey leggings.
Little. Fuckers.
...
Today, it feels as though a mammoth weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
I feel as though I could just float away amongst the, albeit currently abundant and grey, clouds. But float away I just might. Up through the thick grey blanket, to the world of fluffy white, clear blue and warm sunlight.
But no! This is not an ED post. There have been no massively inspiring losses; in fact, I have gained just over a pound. But hey, means I get to lose it again and thus delay any possible decisions I may have to make when I reach 120lbs. Bloomin’ marvellous, I say!
But anyway, onwards!
Enough is ENOUGH is most fucking definitely ENOUGH
There will be no more food chicken.
No more half sentences with the expectation of me guessing the rest.
No more picking unnecessary fights.
No more of the same conversations over and over endlessly.
There will be no more fucking with me. No longer will I have to sit quietly as you are sympathetic and cold and uncaring towards me in the same sentence then fly into a rage when I am confused and upset. No more laying guilt onto me because my life hasn’t turned out exactly as you planned. And no fucking more leaving me in floods of hysterical tears after a thirty second phone call.
No, I haven’t just dumped the world’s worst boyfriend.
Yesterday, I dumped my father.
And it feels a lot like the relief and odd floatiness you get when you’ve been carrying a ridiculously heavy camping backpack for most of the day and finally get to definitively put it down.
But all is not as amazing as it would seem!
We have mice. Brave little bastards, considering we have two cats. And usually that would amuse me. Not enough to compel me not set traps mind you, but enough for me to not constantly wish death upon them.
That is, apart from when they munch on my clothing, heartily it would seem, considering the number of holes in my favourite grey leggings.
Little. Fuckers.
03/07/2010
Chicken, yeah?
I have been trying to blog for a fucking WEEK now. Virgin media says no. To any internet –based activities, in fact. INEXPLICABLY.
Fucking useless excuse for a service provider.
But how lovely to return to so many wonderful comments! AND I get to catch up on reading all your blogs in one go. Absolutely marvellous! :)
Good thing my days are filled with a packed schedule of fuck-all. Really, I’ve got so much fuck-all to fit into a day, I just don’t know how I do it. Personally, I think it has a LOT to do with being pleasantly stoned for a most of the day, but perhaps I digress.
Right. A point. Things that have happened, you say?
Hmmm...
Oh! Playing chicken.... with chicken! The little joke does make me giggle; HOWEVER, being forced to digest chicken for the first time in over six months is a little less amusing. Rather, nauseating and painful, it was.
Enter, my father. With his newest idea to force me to admit my ED. Or, in an idea that would be both VERY African of him and VERY fucking typical, an attempt to force my ED in submission. In an odd moment of déjà vu, in through the front door I walked, dumped my bag and sat – and then POW, a plate of chicken is slammed down in front of me with a stony look that said to me clear as if he had fucking shouted it into my face – “I am watching you. I know what is going on. Eat. Or give me conclusive evidence. And don’t even THINK about going to the toilet afterwards.”
Well, I HAVE been accused of being competitive and stubborn...
So, I ate the fucking chicken. Not ALL of it, but enough for him to stop peering at me so suspiciously when he thought I wasn’t looking. Way to attempt to subtlety there, old man.
And I fucking sat there defiantly and digested it. While my skin CRAWLED with disgust and my stomach rolled uncomfortably.
But you know what?
I am feeling... better.
New.
Energised.
Stronger, more motivated, more focused.
Because this morning I was 127.6lbs – and it would appear that a good solid loss is fucking EXACTLY what I needed to lever me out of my funk and back onto form.
Or back into denial.
But whatever. I am shaking off the melancholy of my last post and moving forwards. This post will end optimistically, I feel rejuvenated and I have a PLAN. I will strive and work for the only thing I know how to – I will become skinnier.
Because skinny is beautiful.
And I will deal with any forthcoming problems as and when they arise.
I feel compelled to publish a selection of before and after photos for your perusal;
Fucking useless excuse for a service provider.
But how lovely to return to so many wonderful comments! AND I get to catch up on reading all your blogs in one go. Absolutely marvellous! :)
Good thing my days are filled with a packed schedule of fuck-all. Really, I’ve got so much fuck-all to fit into a day, I just don’t know how I do it. Personally, I think it has a LOT to do with being pleasantly stoned for a most of the day, but perhaps I digress.
Right. A point. Things that have happened, you say?
Hmmm...
Oh! Playing chicken.... with chicken! The little joke does make me giggle; HOWEVER, being forced to digest chicken for the first time in over six months is a little less amusing. Rather, nauseating and painful, it was.
Enter, my father. With his newest idea to force me to admit my ED. Or, in an idea that would be both VERY African of him and VERY fucking typical, an attempt to force my ED in submission. In an odd moment of déjà vu, in through the front door I walked, dumped my bag and sat – and then POW, a plate of chicken is slammed down in front of me with a stony look that said to me clear as if he had fucking shouted it into my face – “I am watching you. I know what is going on. Eat. Or give me conclusive evidence. And don’t even THINK about going to the toilet afterwards.”
Well, I HAVE been accused of being competitive and stubborn...
So, I ate the fucking chicken. Not ALL of it, but enough for him to stop peering at me so suspiciously when he thought I wasn’t looking. Way to attempt to subtlety there, old man.
And I fucking sat there defiantly and digested it. While my skin CRAWLED with disgust and my stomach rolled uncomfortably.
But you know what?
I am feeling... better.
New.
Energised.
Stronger, more motivated, more focused.
Because this morning I was 127.6lbs – and it would appear that a good solid loss is fucking EXACTLY what I needed to lever me out of my funk and back onto form.
Or back into denial.
But whatever. I am shaking off the melancholy of my last post and moving forwards. This post will end optimistically, I feel rejuvenated and I have a PLAN. I will strive and work for the only thing I know how to – I will become skinnier.
Because skinny is beautiful.
And I will deal with any forthcoming problems as and when they arise.
I feel compelled to publish a selection of before and after photos for your perusal;
Two from before;
And two from NOW;
Lots of love and heartfelt thanks for all your lovely comments, my darlings :)
27/06/2010
Fuck
I’ve been away for a while. I know. I’m a bad person, I feel like I’ve been neglecting a close friend unnecessarily and as I write this I worry breathlessly that you are annoyed with my unexplained absence and reluctant to welcome me back. I worry that perhaps I’ve lost the blogging buzz entirely, and hope above all else that I’m not about to let my blog languish into disuse.
The cover story is that I wanted to hold off on posting until I’d broken into the 120s, to see if it might rekindle my fire. But if I said that was it, I’d be lying.
The truth is I have been drifting aimlessly for the past two weeks.
I am a collection of shit metaphors. A boat with no wind in its sails. A car with no engine.
A chicken with no head?
[I’m also watching the England v Germany match - I can’t BELIEVE that goal was disallowed. STUPID FUCKING REFEREE. Hopefully that’ll at least give the England team a good kick up the arse.]
My rate of loss in the past two weeks has been absolutely embarrassing. From 133lbs on the 14th of June, to 129.8lbs today. Fucking pathetic. A far cry from my usual 0.7/8lbs per day. My previously resolute drive to lose has almost completely escaped me and without it, I am... lost.
I lose therefore I am.
Right now, without my drive I am nothing.
My restricting has been humiliatingly lax – I have been frequently allowing myself whole litre CARTONS of fruit smoothie (very healthy, but 530 cals a piece nonetheless) with not a glimmer of the familiar concern about loss. My portions of hummus have slowly crept up to double, GOD sometimes even fucking triple what they used to be. I pulled out of the Skinny Pact because the calorie bracket was too high for me, what the FUCK happened to the girl who relished a daily intake of under 250 cals and a stomach full of empty? Fuck knows... But do I even notice and attempt to correct the change? Do I bollocks.
[Rooney, it is fucking OPEN. SHOOT YOU BASTARD!]
I have also been eating - FUCK, I’ll call it what it is - I have been BINGING and purging up to FOUR times a day. And regarding it with the same level of ambivalence as I have been my skyrocketing intake. My previously (reasonably) flat stomach is bulging sickeningly over my waistline in a manner I haven’t seen in MONTHS and the sharper line of my jaw has disappeared once more, dulled by the swollen glands in my throat. A result of my apparent newfound habit of jamming my fingers down my throat. Yet, I do not relent.
[3-1 to Germany. What the FUCK are the England defence DOING?! WAKE UP! Stop standing around like idiots! It’s not fucking over until it’s over!]
Frequently I have eaten with the sole intention of purging – hoping and fucking PRAYING that a good purge is just what I need to whip me back into shape, to remind me why it’s all worth it – the way it used to. But it never does and more often than not I am left sobbing quietly on my knees in the toilet as I clean up any evidence of my meal. And over and over I repeat, initially hopeful that THIS time it might be different, but now simply going through the motions. Numb. The heartburn hurts like a bitch, but fuck if I care anymore.
[4-1. FUCK.]
120lbs beckons invitingly. So fucking CLOSE now that I have broken into the 120s, just barely at 129.8, but the surge of inspiration should be overpowering. But instead, I am afraid. I am fucking terrified that when I get to 120lbs, it’s not going to be enough. I remember, it never fucking is. I become so consumed by the need to lose that, as Elle said HERE, appearance takes a back seat, potentially being more attractive at a higher weight becomes irrelevant and it the need for loss is all there is. More frightening still is that I can feel the grip of the numbers squeezing me already – making me doubt that 120 is low enough before I’ve even reached it. A while back I edited my Stats sidebar to include an UGW of 110 without even thinking twice about why. Fuck, I didn’t even think once. Particularly not about the fact that it would put my BMI at a dangerously low (but sickeningly desirable) 15.8.
I want to be beautiful. Not a living skeleton. But now I am unsure if I can even tell the two apart.
[Fuck. NOW it’s over. England are going home.]
Perhaps my loosening will is my subconscious’s way of delaying the inevitable. Or perhaps I am, on some level, aware that I am doing this to myself but am far too entrenched in denial to allow myself to see it. It could even be that the part of me that HATED the way I used to look is satisfied now, but the bigger, stronger, disordered part is unwilling to allow me to stop – not that I even fucking want to. Whatever it is, self loathing is at an all-time high and I am without a plan.
Fuck.
The cover story is that I wanted to hold off on posting until I’d broken into the 120s, to see if it might rekindle my fire. But if I said that was it, I’d be lying.
The truth is I have been drifting aimlessly for the past two weeks.
I am a collection of shit metaphors. A boat with no wind in its sails. A car with no engine.
A chicken with no head?
[I’m also watching the England v Germany match - I can’t BELIEVE that goal was disallowed. STUPID FUCKING REFEREE. Hopefully that’ll at least give the England team a good kick up the arse.]
My rate of loss in the past two weeks has been absolutely embarrassing. From 133lbs on the 14th of June, to 129.8lbs today. Fucking pathetic. A far cry from my usual 0.7/8lbs per day. My previously resolute drive to lose has almost completely escaped me and without it, I am... lost.
I lose therefore I am.
Right now, without my drive I am nothing.
My restricting has been humiliatingly lax – I have been frequently allowing myself whole litre CARTONS of fruit smoothie (very healthy, but 530 cals a piece nonetheless) with not a glimmer of the familiar concern about loss. My portions of hummus have slowly crept up to double, GOD sometimes even fucking triple what they used to be. I pulled out of the Skinny Pact because the calorie bracket was too high for me, what the FUCK happened to the girl who relished a daily intake of under 250 cals and a stomach full of empty? Fuck knows... But do I even notice and attempt to correct the change? Do I bollocks.
[Rooney, it is fucking OPEN. SHOOT YOU BASTARD!]
I have also been eating - FUCK, I’ll call it what it is - I have been BINGING and purging up to FOUR times a day. And regarding it with the same level of ambivalence as I have been my skyrocketing intake. My previously (reasonably) flat stomach is bulging sickeningly over my waistline in a manner I haven’t seen in MONTHS and the sharper line of my jaw has disappeared once more, dulled by the swollen glands in my throat. A result of my apparent newfound habit of jamming my fingers down my throat. Yet, I do not relent.
[3-1 to Germany. What the FUCK are the England defence DOING?! WAKE UP! Stop standing around like idiots! It’s not fucking over until it’s over!]
Frequently I have eaten with the sole intention of purging – hoping and fucking PRAYING that a good purge is just what I need to whip me back into shape, to remind me why it’s all worth it – the way it used to. But it never does and more often than not I am left sobbing quietly on my knees in the toilet as I clean up any evidence of my meal. And over and over I repeat, initially hopeful that THIS time it might be different, but now simply going through the motions. Numb. The heartburn hurts like a bitch, but fuck if I care anymore.
[4-1. FUCK.]
120lbs beckons invitingly. So fucking CLOSE now that I have broken into the 120s, just barely at 129.8, but the surge of inspiration should be overpowering. But instead, I am afraid. I am fucking terrified that when I get to 120lbs, it’s not going to be enough. I remember, it never fucking is. I become so consumed by the need to lose that, as Elle said HERE, appearance takes a back seat, potentially being more attractive at a higher weight becomes irrelevant and it the need for loss is all there is. More frightening still is that I can feel the grip of the numbers squeezing me already – making me doubt that 120 is low enough before I’ve even reached it. A while back I edited my Stats sidebar to include an UGW of 110 without even thinking twice about why. Fuck, I didn’t even think once. Particularly not about the fact that it would put my BMI at a dangerously low (but sickeningly desirable) 15.8.
I want to be beautiful. Not a living skeleton. But now I am unsure if I can even tell the two apart.
[Fuck. NOW it’s over. England are going home.]
Perhaps my loosening will is my subconscious’s way of delaying the inevitable. Or perhaps I am, on some level, aware that I am doing this to myself but am far too entrenched in denial to allow myself to see it. It could even be that the part of me that HATED the way I used to look is satisfied now, but the bigger, stronger, disordered part is unwilling to allow me to stop – not that I even fucking want to. Whatever it is, self loathing is at an all-time high and I am without a plan.
Fuck.
14/06/2010
Untitled
This isn’t really a post.
You probably shouldn’t read it. I may not even publish it.
We’ll see, I suppose.
In fact, this isn’t even me writing. Consider it instead akin to me banging my head against the keyboard in a melodramatic yet listless manner. But more eloquent. Or something.
My fire has gone out. I’m not even smouldering anymore really, it’s like someone pissed on my fucking campfire. It’s possible that I just need stoking and/or inspiration. And even though I can never resist an awful pun – all it did was make me laugh bitterly. Besides, to have sex I’d have to be able to ignore my ubiquitous anxiety and unclench for more than thirty seconds. Oh yeah, tensing up whenever I am touched is, I imagine, a VERY attractive trait in a girlfriend. It’s right up there on the list with pathological lying, kleptomania and herpes.
Fabulous.
Back to the pile of wet tissue that is my mood. Apart from overwhelming beigeness, I have a newfound sense of mistrust. Considering how wonderfully my father dealt with my last mental health hiccough, I was understandably suspicious of his recent newfound sympathy and understanding towards my depression and anxiety. Really fucking suspicious.
Some people might even say paranoid.
And those are the people that are surprised when one day they’re imprisoned in their own home.
Funny how that happens.
But apparently he’s over the initial shock of my neatly written, carefully worded, three page explanation of my ‘issues’ and has reverted back to his standard modus operandi of the same three conversations we have every week;
1. The irritation of my mother. I don’t hate my mother, we simply have NO relationship. My parents are divorced, yet still live together due to my father’s misguided need to take care of her while she bleeds him dry. I feel that makes her quite firmly, not my fucking problem. No matter HOW annoying she is.
2. Apparently I’m getting too skinny. Shut up father, no I am not. Years of disinterest will not be made right by two months of concentrated concern.
3. He’s lost some DVDs, and even though we haven’t lived together for four years, it’s my fault.
Sometimes when I’m really lucky, I get the extended disco version that includes hidden bonus rant number 4;
4. My life isn’t going to plan. He expected me to get my degree and presto, get a job. Not get depressed and anxious. The deviation from the plan upsets him. Which segues neatly into an interrogation as to why I am unemployed and what I plan to do about this and of course – the guilt trip about how this is affecting HIM.
Hm
It feels like I’m letting you ladies down with this non-post and my recent fumbling attempts at comments – but I seem to be devoid of the passion to write anything vaguely witty or amusing. Or draw. Or do anything other than smoke myself away into nothing.
I have no stories to tell.
My weight jumped up 3lbs from 134lbs to 137lbs. Usually, ARGH! But I don’t think I can actually bring myself to give a shit.
I suppose it’s quite apropos that this post just sort of... fizzles out.
I’m going to have a spliff now.
Adieu.
EDIT 1: It was pointed out to me that communicating with my father almost exclusively through carefully and formally written emails is a bit weird. It's also REALLY fucking necessary. He has an irritating habit of loudly talking over me and ignoring what I'm saying completely when he disagrees with it, or dislikes my point. Which leads to frustrated shouting. Neither of which I have the patience for. And so, extensive emails.
EDIT 2: It seems that yesterday my scales were fucking with me again. Considering that I was 134lbs the day before yesterday and 133lbs today, the 137lbs reading was probably a lie. I feel a little betrayed. Damnit scales, how can I trust you now?!
EDIT 1: It was pointed out to me that communicating with my father almost exclusively through carefully and formally written emails is a bit weird. It's also REALLY fucking necessary. He has an irritating habit of loudly talking over me and ignoring what I'm saying completely when he disagrees with it, or dislikes my point. Which leads to frustrated shouting. Neither of which I have the patience for. And so, extensive emails.
EDIT 2: It seems that yesterday my scales were fucking with me again. Considering that I was 134lbs the day before yesterday and 133lbs today, the 137lbs reading was probably a lie. I feel a little betrayed. Damnit scales, how can I trust you now?!
02/06/2010
Assorted Marvellousness
Oooh, a Blogger Addict Award! Thank you muchly my lovely Liz :)
Now, onto the business of the RULES...
Five things that I LOATHE
- Drug laws based more on political opinion rather than truth and objective scientific data. You are more likely to die from choking on a cabbage leaf than you are from taking ecstasy. Prof. Nutt was asked his opinion, he tried to be objective and truthful and he was fired for his trouble. Not ALL drugs will immediately kill you and it's surprisingly easy to stay safe if you use your brain. Drinking nine litres of water in seven hours is NOT in fact staying 'well hydrated' (see: The Leah Betts ecstasy story), it's fucking stupid. HOW can MDMA (non addictive, ridiculously low number of related deaths etc) be legitimately put in the same classification as Heroin?
- People who stand on the left on escalators. It's a London thing, I imagine. But whenever I encounter someone doing it and getting in my way, I imagine kicking that person HARD in the small of the back.
- People treating me like I'm stupid. A pathological lack of concern for my health and wellbeing does NOT translate into stupidity.
- Mushrooms. *disgusted shudder* But only the texture. No, I don't understand it either.
- Bad grammar and spelling. I can't handle it - it makes me sad. Much like text-speak.
- Origami. I'm a fucking origami fiend. I haven't updated my little origami sidebar in a while, but that's mainly because i'm having trouble deciding which of my creations to put there. The precision of it appeals to my crazy in a wonderful way.
- Hummus. Yummus. It's fucking amazing. When I get the urge to binge, I want to do it with low fat hummus.
- Amsterdam. I'm a massive stoner, Amsterdam was like... coming home. Sometimes, I pine for it.
- My boyfriend. Yeah, it's corny, but he makes me so unbelievably happy. I'm going to marry him one day.
- Vintage clothing. Vintage shops. Vintage jumble sales. I have a ridiculous amount of clothing, most of it vintage. So much that I can only actually store HALF of it where I'm currently living. The rest is in two suitcases, four large boxes and seven/eight binbags in a storage facility. I also love altering vintage clothing. Dresses into skirts, skirts into dresses, taking things that don't fit me in and everything inbetween. I must ALWAYS have access to a sewing machine, if I don't i'll proably go into withdrawal or something
Elle
Zen
Pointe
Phantasmagorical Delusion
Liz
Alice (Even though she's disappeared, she DEFINITELY deserves a nomination)
In ther news, today I FINALLY put down my £2200 deposit for my Makeup Artistry course in January and booked my place! Eeeeeee! I am so RIDICULOUSLY excited!
Also, this morning I was 140lbs. Damnation!
Until next time, lovelies :)
31/05/2010
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
It took an acid-trip, about 40 minutes sleep and a lunch comprised mainly of MEAT, but I feel like I’ve been gifted with a positively marvellous sense of clarity.
Fuck me... They say a (revoltingly) greasy fry-up is the prime cure for a hangover; well it does appear that for an acid-afterglow/comedown all I needed was a massive (temporary, obviously) injection of succulent meat to perk me up fabulously. Not what I would have traditionally gone for, but my father seems to be playing food chicken with me and GAWD, his anorexic pretty-much-vegetarian daughter is FAR too stubborn to simply back down. Fuck that shit. After a starter, main, dessert and four quick carefully placed purges I have a bounce in my step and a nicely flat stomach despite the sheer size of my meal. And I appear to have sufficiently convinced my newly observant father that I DO in fact eat like a ‘normal person’.
Or some such nonsense.
Last night as my brain fizzled and squiggled gently, I often caught myself staring down at my thigh in fascination. As I sat with my legs were folded up beneath me my thighs were in a naturally quite unflattering position, pressed up against my calves and smooshed out to their maximum width.
The obvious happened. Obviously.
I had previously figured that considering my quickening ascent into complete insanity – YES. Ascent. There’s nothing wrong with being completely fucking crazy – perhaps dropping a hallucinogen might not be the best idea I’ve had thus far. That perhaps a greatly skewed sense of visual perception may do my mental stability more harm than good.
But, alas; I am impressionable, fickle and most importantly - the acid was free...
If you’re going to do it wrong, do it right.
By ‘the obvious’ I am obviously referring to my eyes seeing not reality of my thighs before me, but rather under my gaze the surface of my grey leggings shifted like the surface of a liquid and my thighs ballooned to their proportions I had become accustomed to staring down at in disgust in the previous years. Still rippling slightly, as if the cellulite was churning under my skin.
VOMIT.
Over and over, I glanced at various body parts watching in horror as they ballooned and undulated. Now, I’m not one for praying, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I mentally screamed out to God to make it not be true. Unfortunately don’t think it counts if your second most used word, after please, is FUCK. At least that’s what I hear - the last time I voluntarily entered a church or chapel, someone had to die first. My stomach tightened and rolled and I fled to the toilet heaving up disappointingly small trickles of bile and foam.
Well fuck... What do I do now?
Throwing up has practically become my compulsive reaction to stress and anxiety. So, sitting in a sweaty heap on the toilet floor, I was actually at a loss.
Forcing my rising hysteria down with the simple cold logic that an increase of that size and speed would have probably seriously hurt me - and as I was NOT in fact bleeding profusely from rips in my flesh and in fact NOT in writhing agony I muddled through to the realisation that without the proof of pain this realistically COULD NOT BE FUCKING HAPPENING.
And then the whole concept slipped my mind. I walked back into the bedroom, continued smoking and giggling ridiculously and the moment was over.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
But then it was. Then again it wasn’t. Then it was again. Back and forth my addled mind flitted between amusement and paranoid panic.
Other choice snippets of the evening include: the hilarity of Jewish Dubstep, Jimi Hendrix as a whale from beyond the grave, and the advent of a new religion based on the premise of ‘If you’re going to roll one, roll two.’ A great night had by all :)
At the end of the night, I stood before the full length mirror in my bikini, fighting the urge to turn away in disgust, as is my usual reaction to most mirrors and detailed scrutiny of myself. But I persevered and peered, and poked and prodded, and pinched and pulled at myself, forcibly burning the physical knowledge that it COULD NOT BE TRUE deep into my brain.
The acid actually dispelled the usual filter of hate I see myself and any pictures of myself through and I stared at myself in analytical fascination, expecting at any point to resume loathing myself as normal.
But it didn’t happen.
And I think I may have caught an actual glimpse of what I look like. Not the distorted bloated image I see whenever I looked into the mirror, but my TRUE appearance. Like finally looking in a normal mirror after it seemed I would be saddled with my perceived funhouse mirror-esque look forever. With a sense of clarity I stared at my hipbones, collarbones and narrow wrists and I dared to allow myself pleasure at what I saw there.
OR in the same way the acid temporarily ballooned my thighs, it shrank me down to what I hoped I would see and emphasised my bones.
OR simply, I’m crazy.
Whatever.
It left me in a fabulous mood when I eventually woke up in the early afternoon.
I’m wondering what to do with my newfound, albeit limited, happiness. I mean, in re-checked the mirror and the distortion is firmly back in place, so.... what? I feel like I should make a pretty red bracelet or something...
Hmmm... Onto other things; my first somewhat successful social outing has occurred – blissfully short and compliments aplenty, oh and a somewhat diminished sense of empathy and emotion that is making it difficult to interact with other humans. How interestingly sociopathic!
Oh and 138.8lbs yesterday morning!
A cause for celebration methinks :)
Fuck me... They say a (revoltingly) greasy fry-up is the prime cure for a hangover; well it does appear that for an acid-afterglow/comedown all I needed was a massive (temporary, obviously) injection of succulent meat to perk me up fabulously. Not what I would have traditionally gone for, but my father seems to be playing food chicken with me and GAWD, his anorexic pretty-much-vegetarian daughter is FAR too stubborn to simply back down. Fuck that shit. After a starter, main, dessert and four quick carefully placed purges I have a bounce in my step and a nicely flat stomach despite the sheer size of my meal. And I appear to have sufficiently convinced my newly observant father that I DO in fact eat like a ‘normal person’.
Or some such nonsense.
Last night as my brain fizzled and squiggled gently, I often caught myself staring down at my thigh in fascination. As I sat with my legs were folded up beneath me my thighs were in a naturally quite unflattering position, pressed up against my calves and smooshed out to their maximum width.
The obvious happened. Obviously.
I had previously figured that considering my quickening ascent into complete insanity – YES. Ascent. There’s nothing wrong with being completely fucking crazy – perhaps dropping a hallucinogen might not be the best idea I’ve had thus far. That perhaps a greatly skewed sense of visual perception may do my mental stability more harm than good.
But, alas; I am impressionable, fickle and most importantly - the acid was free...
If you’re going to do it wrong, do it right.
By ‘the obvious’ I am obviously referring to my eyes seeing not reality of my thighs before me, but rather under my gaze the surface of my grey leggings shifted like the surface of a liquid and my thighs ballooned to their proportions I had become accustomed to staring down at in disgust in the previous years. Still rippling slightly, as if the cellulite was churning under my skin.
VOMIT.
Over and over, I glanced at various body parts watching in horror as they ballooned and undulated. Now, I’m not one for praying, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I mentally screamed out to God to make it not be true. Unfortunately don’t think it counts if your second most used word, after please, is FUCK. At least that’s what I hear - the last time I voluntarily entered a church or chapel, someone had to die first. My stomach tightened and rolled and I fled to the toilet heaving up disappointingly small trickles of bile and foam.
Well fuck... What do I do now?
Throwing up has practically become my compulsive reaction to stress and anxiety. So, sitting in a sweaty heap on the toilet floor, I was actually at a loss.
Forcing my rising hysteria down with the simple cold logic that an increase of that size and speed would have probably seriously hurt me - and as I was NOT in fact bleeding profusely from rips in my flesh and in fact NOT in writhing agony I muddled through to the realisation that without the proof of pain this realistically COULD NOT BE FUCKING HAPPENING.
And then the whole concept slipped my mind. I walked back into the bedroom, continued smoking and giggling ridiculously and the moment was over.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
But then it was. Then again it wasn’t. Then it was again. Back and forth my addled mind flitted between amusement and paranoid panic.
Other choice snippets of the evening include: the hilarity of Jewish Dubstep, Jimi Hendrix as a whale from beyond the grave, and the advent of a new religion based on the premise of ‘If you’re going to roll one, roll two.’ A great night had by all :)
At the end of the night, I stood before the full length mirror in my bikini, fighting the urge to turn away in disgust, as is my usual reaction to most mirrors and detailed scrutiny of myself. But I persevered and peered, and poked and prodded, and pinched and pulled at myself, forcibly burning the physical knowledge that it COULD NOT BE TRUE deep into my brain.
The acid actually dispelled the usual filter of hate I see myself and any pictures of myself through and I stared at myself in analytical fascination, expecting at any point to resume loathing myself as normal.
But it didn’t happen.
And I think I may have caught an actual glimpse of what I look like. Not the distorted bloated image I see whenever I looked into the mirror, but my TRUE appearance. Like finally looking in a normal mirror after it seemed I would be saddled with my perceived funhouse mirror-esque look forever. With a sense of clarity I stared at my hipbones, collarbones and narrow wrists and I dared to allow myself pleasure at what I saw there.
OR in the same way the acid temporarily ballooned my thighs, it shrank me down to what I hoped I would see and emphasised my bones.
OR simply, I’m crazy.
Whatever.
It left me in a fabulous mood when I eventually woke up in the early afternoon.
I’m wondering what to do with my newfound, albeit limited, happiness. I mean, in re-checked the mirror and the distortion is firmly back in place, so.... what? I feel like I should make a pretty red bracelet or something...
Hmmm... Onto other things; my first somewhat successful social outing has occurred – blissfully short and compliments aplenty, oh and a somewhat diminished sense of empathy and emotion that is making it difficult to interact with other humans. How interestingly sociopathic!
Oh and 138.8lbs yesterday morning!
A cause for celebration methinks :)
29/05/2010
More laptop woes
Damn my lack of servicable laptop! Everyone is using theirs in the upcoming exams so there's none for me to borrow :(
Also, I MAY have broken into the 130's. Only JUST at 139.5lbs. But still! Yay! But also possibly not. Boo. Stupid fucking scales. Messing with me.
Back soon with posts and comment love aplenty. Hopefully
x
Also, I MAY have broken into the 130's. Only JUST at 139.5lbs. But still! Yay! But also possibly not. Boo. Stupid fucking scales. Messing with me.
Back soon with posts and comment love aplenty. Hopefully
x
25/05/2010
24/05/2010
Quick Note
An odd sort of explanation/apology-without-actually-apologising from Anoymous on THIS post.
And, to Anonymous; It wasn't really that much of an effort, in fact, it was pretty enjoyable. Thank you for your clarification though and yes, because of my ED, for me, skinny is everything.
It's been an odd morning. My dad also phoned me, just to chat. I don't think he's ever done that in my entire life. How strange...
I also decided not to weigh myself today. I'm fasting again in the (vain) hope of a loss by tomorrow.
Fingers crossed.
x
And, to Anonymous; It wasn't really that much of an effort, in fact, it was pretty enjoyable. Thank you for your clarification though and yes, because of my ED, for me, skinny is everything.
It's been an odd morning. My dad also phoned me, just to chat. I don't think he's ever done that in my entire life. How strange...
I also decided not to weigh myself today. I'm fasting again in the (vain) hope of a loss by tomorrow.
Fingers crossed.
x
23/05/2010
Well, lookie here!
My first abusive commenter, how exciting.
I must confess I am QUITE disappointed that they didn’t have the testicular fortitude to provide me with their name – by the way dear, thanks ‘Anonymous’, for showing me how brave you really are by not even allowing me to see your online pseudonym so that I might provide you with a reply to your ahem, intelligent, witty and above all else constructive criticisms. I mean, this way I won’t even have the meagre satisfaction and amusement of knowing that you’ll read this. Very inconsiderate.
Nevertheless, I’ll be methodical, as GOD I wouldn’t want to leave any of your queries or comments unanswered, would I? However, I AM going to be lovely and not point out the grammatical errors.
Firstly, yes, I do indeed think I look ‘fat as fuck’, as you so eloquently put it, in those photos. That’s why I’m starving myself. Have you never met anyone with an ED? That much should be obvious, even to you. The number of skinnier girls finding me disgusting is also completely fucking irrelevant – I find myself disgusting, and have thought so many worse things about myself that your pathetic attempt, at what I presume was intended to be ‘getting under my skin’, is honestly laughable. I’ll repeat myself, just so I’m extra clear; that’s why I’m starving myself. Idiot.
As for your pizza-related comment – if you’d cast your eye to the right, towards my Skinny Pact sidebar, prior to commenting, you would have noticed that I have an (almost) daily recount of my eating habits. At no point has pizza featured. I can’t remember the last time I ate pizza, let alone digested it. Don’t be silly now.
Yeah, on my blog, I’m pretty fucking offensive. And judgemental. And crude. And all sorts of other things. I’m a bitch. I’m aware of that, it works for me. But do you know what else I am? I’m funny with it. There lies the integral difference between us (well, apart from the fact that I keep my vitriol confined to my blog, rather than spewing it at strangers unprovoked); your comments were banal. In fact, I was disappointed that my FIRST EVER flamer seemed so fabulously fucking stupid.
Aaaaaand finally, surprisingly enough, I DO know I need to lose thirty pounds. That’s why my UGW is almost EXACTLY thirty pounds lighter than I am currently. And as for the hummus – yes, I did need it, I have a deficiency. I have a note from my doctor confirming this, it’s very cruel of you to draw further attention to my ‘unfortunate’ addiction.
I apologise if I have failed to express myself monosyllabically enough for you to understand, it’s just that I have such trouble lowering myself. As a flamer, you barely even rate as a 3/10. Try harder next time and have a fucking lovely day.
If anyone else fancies giving flaming me a go, by all means, be my guest. Not only could I do with the amusement, I do so enjoy flexing my literary and bitchy muscles at the same time.
x
EDIT: The flaming comments are on older posts, so here are the links to them for reference purposes: ONE TWO
I must confess I am QUITE disappointed that they didn’t have the testicular fortitude to provide me with their name – by the way dear, thanks ‘Anonymous’, for showing me how brave you really are by not even allowing me to see your online pseudonym so that I might provide you with a reply to your ahem, intelligent, witty and above all else constructive criticisms. I mean, this way I won’t even have the meagre satisfaction and amusement of knowing that you’ll read this. Very inconsiderate.
Nevertheless, I’ll be methodical, as GOD I wouldn’t want to leave any of your queries or comments unanswered, would I? However, I AM going to be lovely and not point out the grammatical errors.
Firstly, yes, I do indeed think I look ‘fat as fuck’, as you so eloquently put it, in those photos. That’s why I’m starving myself. Have you never met anyone with an ED? That much should be obvious, even to you. The number of skinnier girls finding me disgusting is also completely fucking irrelevant – I find myself disgusting, and have thought so many worse things about myself that your pathetic attempt, at what I presume was intended to be ‘getting under my skin’, is honestly laughable. I’ll repeat myself, just so I’m extra clear; that’s why I’m starving myself. Idiot.
As for your pizza-related comment – if you’d cast your eye to the right, towards my Skinny Pact sidebar, prior to commenting, you would have noticed that I have an (almost) daily recount of my eating habits. At no point has pizza featured. I can’t remember the last time I ate pizza, let alone digested it. Don’t be silly now.
Yeah, on my blog, I’m pretty fucking offensive. And judgemental. And crude. And all sorts of other things. I’m a bitch. I’m aware of that, it works for me. But do you know what else I am? I’m funny with it. There lies the integral difference between us (well, apart from the fact that I keep my vitriol confined to my blog, rather than spewing it at strangers unprovoked); your comments were banal. In fact, I was disappointed that my FIRST EVER flamer seemed so fabulously fucking stupid.
Aaaaaand finally, surprisingly enough, I DO know I need to lose thirty pounds. That’s why my UGW is almost EXACTLY thirty pounds lighter than I am currently. And as for the hummus – yes, I did need it, I have a deficiency. I have a note from my doctor confirming this, it’s very cruel of you to draw further attention to my ‘unfortunate’ addiction.
I apologise if I have failed to express myself monosyllabically enough for you to understand, it’s just that I have such trouble lowering myself. As a flamer, you barely even rate as a 3/10. Try harder next time and have a fucking lovely day.
If anyone else fancies giving flaming me a go, by all means, be my guest. Not only could I do with the amusement, I do so enjoy flexing my literary and bitchy muscles at the same time.
x
EDIT: The flaming comments are on older posts, so here are the links to them for reference purposes: ONE TWO
22/05/2010
Excuse me while I go and KILL MYSELF
144.1lbs
*scream of despair*
WHY?!
Sigh. I shall leave you with some photos of the pink daisies outside my house - they always cheer me up when I want to kill myself/other people/everyone.
*scream of despair*
WHY?!
Sigh. I shall leave you with some photos of the pink daisies outside my house - they always cheer me up when I want to kill myself/other people/everyone.
21/05/2010
Word of the day + Revulsion
Today’s word of the day is: Murkage
Not for any particular reason, mind you. I was just listening to some of Hadouken’s demos today and it amused me thoroughly.
They want to have a dance like Whigfield had. Mhmmm.
But really now, the whole point of this post is to share a bit of my disgust.
Today was one of the warmest days in London thus far and I was on the bus. I was sitting next to a woman of somewhat gargantuan proportions, crammed into the window seat. And no matter how much I leaned away or folded myself up smaller or crossed my arms, because she took up not only her seat, but about a THIRD of mine, my bare upper arm was in constant contact with her equally bare upper arm.
Generally, that wouldn’t bother me TOO much.
But it was hot. Really fucking HOT.
And her arm was sweaty. Really fucking SWEATY.
For the entirety of my 40 minute journey, our arms slipped and slid against each other. In her SWEAT.
*vomits*
That’s all.
Oh, I’m at 143.2lbs now! Fingers crossed that by tomorrow I will have broken the 143-145lb plateau I’ve been on for about two fucking weeks now
Adieu, my lovelies :)
EDIT: You know, for quite a while afterwards I wondered why I didnt just MOVE AWAY from the obese woman. The bus wasn't particularly crowded, there were loads of extra seats - I could have just MOVED and completed the rest of my journey in peace. But no. I stayed put. And controlled my revolted wincing as best I could. Why? Because it was FUCKING AMAZING thinspiration. Every time her arm slid against mine with the movement of the bus, sure, bile rose in my throat, but my desire to never EVER look like her, to restrict harder, push myself harder fucking SKYROCKETED.
Masochistic, right?
Not for any particular reason, mind you. I was just listening to some of Hadouken’s demos today and it amused me thoroughly.
They want to have a dance like Whigfield had. Mhmmm.
But really now, the whole point of this post is to share a bit of my disgust.
Today was one of the warmest days in London thus far and I was on the bus. I was sitting next to a woman of somewhat gargantuan proportions, crammed into the window seat. And no matter how much I leaned away or folded myself up smaller or crossed my arms, because she took up not only her seat, but about a THIRD of mine, my bare upper arm was in constant contact with her equally bare upper arm.
Generally, that wouldn’t bother me TOO much.
But it was hot. Really fucking HOT.
And her arm was sweaty. Really fucking SWEATY.
For the entirety of my 40 minute journey, our arms slipped and slid against each other. In her SWEAT.
*vomits*
That’s all.
Oh, I’m at 143.2lbs now! Fingers crossed that by tomorrow I will have broken the 143-145lb plateau I’ve been on for about two fucking weeks now
Adieu, my lovelies :)
EDIT: You know, for quite a while afterwards I wondered why I didnt just MOVE AWAY from the obese woman. The bus wasn't particularly crowded, there were loads of extra seats - I could have just MOVED and completed the rest of my journey in peace. But no. I stayed put. And controlled my revolted wincing as best I could. Why? Because it was FUCKING AMAZING thinspiration. Every time her arm slid against mine with the movement of the bus, sure, bile rose in my throat, but my desire to never EVER look like her, to restrict harder, push myself harder fucking SKYROCKETED.
Masochistic, right?
20/05/2010
ARGH
I should not be allowed to leave the house. EVER.
Furthermore, I REALLY should not be allowed to interact socially with anyone other than my boyfriend. That way mortification lies.
SO.
I collapsed and passed out outside Tottenham Court Road station yesterday night. Surrounded by concerned/amused people who thought I was too wasted to stand at 10pm on a Wednesday.
Oh yes. How marvellously fucking embarrassing.
SIGH
I’ll start at the beginning,
A friend’s birthday rolls around, and not only have I not seen her in about a year... I haven’t seen her since I started losing weight and gaining crazy. We had a very love/hate relationship – on my part mostly. I mean, she IS lovely, and she DOES mean well and we’ve been friends for years, but that doesn’t mean that sometimes I don’t fantasise about grabbing her by her pretty platinum blonde hair and ruining her pretty perfect face with my knee.
Ahem.
I’m so fucking bitter. But I’m oddly okay with it. Accepting my flaws and all that, I’m a pretty jealous and bitter person sometimes. And for the whole time we’ve known each other, she’s been prettier than me, thinner than me and more outgoing than me. And everything anyone has ever done and mentioned to her, chances are she did it first. And so much better. But simultaneously I love her to bits. I made her a card I drew myself and everything.
Hmm... It’s very oxymoronic in a manner that exists only in female friendships, I imagine. As a guy, it seems so much simpler - they’re either cool, or a bit of a wank. Every so often I hate having female friends; I’m such a fucking man so much of the time. Too forthright. Too insensitive. Not enough of a lady. Pfft. But, I digress.
I arrived at the pub, she stood to give me a hug and... well, so much for her miraculous ability to eat whatever she wants and not gain a pound. The pounds found her.
And I positively GLOWED with happiness
The evening actually got better from there. There was talking, laughing the dodging of probing enquiries about my personal life like a conversational ninja. It was great! And over and over in my head; ‘she’s gained weight’, ‘I’m thinner than her!’ It made me feel amazing.
Fast forward about an hour, we’re on the tube to the next bar and I am feeling a bit... dodgy. The single measure of vodka I had in my ONLY alcoholic drink is swirling around nauseatingly in my stomach, the laxatives I took earlier are rumbling around in my digestive tract and the lack of food (Obviously, so my stomach would be lovely and flat that night) with the heat of the tube carriage is making me VERY lightheaded and dizzy. But I convince myself it’ll be fine. I’ll tell myself feel better in the fresh air and after I find a toilet.
On the escalator, after two flights of stairs, and I’m fairly certain I’m about to throw up ALL over my concerned boyfriend and the three people standing behind him. I’m sure I look as gormless as they come as the world tilts and spins sickeningly around me, but at that point I’m basically past caring. The people of our group in front of me on the escalator get off and mill around behind the ticket barriers, waiting to be told which way to go – and as there are quite a few, the polite thing to do would be to gesture that the way I had headed was the right one. But I am too unsteady on my feet to be well-mannered as well as about to vomit and/or shit myself – I brush past them, stumble through the ticket barriers and stagger up another three flights of stairs towards the cool breeze I can feel so tantalisingly close to my sweaty face.
At street level the cool night air is not the sweet relief I imagined it would be. I think I was vaguely upright and conscious for about four seconds before the world tilted particularly violently, twirling on its axis, I lost the ability to keep my feet under me no matter how hard I tried and hit the pavement on my arse. Fucking hard.
Embarrassment would have bloomed on my face immediately, but I was preoccupied with all semi-unconsciousness and my mouth that wouldn’t respond properly as I tried to speak. I’m sure every weak excuse I tried to explain away my sudden collapse with was slurred horribly.
Superbly convincing, I imagine.
And obviously at the first social event I‘ve dared attend after the Barbecue Fiasco too. Fabulous. Completely appropriate when I haven’t seen these people in about a year. Not that there really is a social event at which complete collapse is appropriate. But this MAY have successfully convinced me to never leave the house again.
Soon, I’ll try some damage control maybe. Any ideas of excuses for my sudden collapse?
As for my unveiling...
POW. Me in all my glory;
One my boyfriend took at the park yesterday. I’m probably trying to be cute, or something.
And another when he caught me giving a skinny girl a sideways look of jealousy. Though oddly, it does look like I'm smiling. I wasn't. But my tattoo IS in this one, so I guess it stays up.
That’s all for now, really. I would have posted yesterday but I was cowering in burning shame
Ta ta, lovelies
Furthermore, I REALLY should not be allowed to interact socially with anyone other than my boyfriend. That way mortification lies.
SO.
I collapsed and passed out outside Tottenham Court Road station yesterday night. Surrounded by concerned/amused people who thought I was too wasted to stand at 10pm on a Wednesday.
Oh yes. How marvellously fucking embarrassing.
SIGH
I’ll start at the beginning,
A friend’s birthday rolls around, and not only have I not seen her in about a year... I haven’t seen her since I started losing weight and gaining crazy. We had a very love/hate relationship – on my part mostly. I mean, she IS lovely, and she DOES mean well and we’ve been friends for years, but that doesn’t mean that sometimes I don’t fantasise about grabbing her by her pretty platinum blonde hair and ruining her pretty perfect face with my knee.
Ahem.
I’m so fucking bitter. But I’m oddly okay with it. Accepting my flaws and all that, I’m a pretty jealous and bitter person sometimes. And for the whole time we’ve known each other, she’s been prettier than me, thinner than me and more outgoing than me. And everything anyone has ever done and mentioned to her, chances are she did it first. And so much better. But simultaneously I love her to bits. I made her a card I drew myself and everything.
Hmm... It’s very oxymoronic in a manner that exists only in female friendships, I imagine. As a guy, it seems so much simpler - they’re either cool, or a bit of a wank. Every so often I hate having female friends; I’m such a fucking man so much of the time. Too forthright. Too insensitive. Not enough of a lady. Pfft. But, I digress.
I arrived at the pub, she stood to give me a hug and... well, so much for her miraculous ability to eat whatever she wants and not gain a pound. The pounds found her.
And I positively GLOWED with happiness
The evening actually got better from there. There was talking, laughing the dodging of probing enquiries about my personal life like a conversational ninja. It was great! And over and over in my head; ‘she’s gained weight’, ‘I’m thinner than her!’ It made me feel amazing.
Fast forward about an hour, we’re on the tube to the next bar and I am feeling a bit... dodgy. The single measure of vodka I had in my ONLY alcoholic drink is swirling around nauseatingly in my stomach, the laxatives I took earlier are rumbling around in my digestive tract and the lack of food (Obviously, so my stomach would be lovely and flat that night) with the heat of the tube carriage is making me VERY lightheaded and dizzy. But I convince myself it’ll be fine. I’ll tell myself feel better in the fresh air and after I find a toilet.
On the escalator, after two flights of stairs, and I’m fairly certain I’m about to throw up ALL over my concerned boyfriend and the three people standing behind him. I’m sure I look as gormless as they come as the world tilts and spins sickeningly around me, but at that point I’m basically past caring. The people of our group in front of me on the escalator get off and mill around behind the ticket barriers, waiting to be told which way to go – and as there are quite a few, the polite thing to do would be to gesture that the way I had headed was the right one. But I am too unsteady on my feet to be well-mannered as well as about to vomit and/or shit myself – I brush past them, stumble through the ticket barriers and stagger up another three flights of stairs towards the cool breeze I can feel so tantalisingly close to my sweaty face.
At street level the cool night air is not the sweet relief I imagined it would be. I think I was vaguely upright and conscious for about four seconds before the world tilted particularly violently, twirling on its axis, I lost the ability to keep my feet under me no matter how hard I tried and hit the pavement on my arse. Fucking hard.
Embarrassment would have bloomed on my face immediately, but I was preoccupied with all semi-unconsciousness and my mouth that wouldn’t respond properly as I tried to speak. I’m sure every weak excuse I tried to explain away my sudden collapse with was slurred horribly.
Superbly convincing, I imagine.
And obviously at the first social event I‘ve dared attend after the Barbecue Fiasco too. Fabulous. Completely appropriate when I haven’t seen these people in about a year. Not that there really is a social event at which complete collapse is appropriate. But this MAY have successfully convinced me to never leave the house again.
Soon, I’ll try some damage control maybe. Any ideas of excuses for my sudden collapse?
As for my unveiling...
POW. Me in all my glory;
One my boyfriend took at the park yesterday. I’m probably trying to be cute, or something.
And another when he caught me giving a skinny girl a sideways look of jealousy. Though oddly, it does look like I'm smiling. I wasn't. But my tattoo IS in this one, so I guess it stays up.
That’s all for now, really. I would have posted yesterday but I was cowering in burning shame
Ta ta, lovelies
19/05/2010
Could it be? After TWELVE DAYS?
Down a pound from yesterday!
Fucking finally.
And all it took was the introduction of laxatives, the threat of complete loss of sanity and the strong compulsion to hurt myself.
Sigh, stupid body.
More later, promise :)
Fucking finally.
And all it took was the introduction of laxatives, the threat of complete loss of sanity and the strong compulsion to hurt myself.
Sigh, stupid body.
More later, promise :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
