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?

-------------------------

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...

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

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...

...

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.

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.

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;

Two from before;

And two from NOW;

Lots of love and heartfelt thanks for all your lovely comments, my darlings :)

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.

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?!

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.

Five things I ADORE

• 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

 Now, for my nominations....

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 :)