Gravity doesn't exist until impact.

Or so I apparently believe.
Guess who decided to be awesome and stand on a weighted medicine ball?
Now guess who not only succeeded in standing on it, jumping around on it, and then gloriously attempting to get back on it, and falling off and landing so hard I lost a quarter inch in height and got dizzy?
If you guessed PrettyWreck, give yourself three points and call yourself a winner!
I totally did that. Just stretched out on a foam roller and then a suspension bar. Feel better now, and got back my quarter inch, but my wrist is not happy. Best part is, I succeeded first try, then tried to jump back on it, and fell. Had to LAY DOWN it hurt so bad and I was so dizzy....
....then I got up, shook off, and climbed right back on. This time, I used the wall for support when I got on it, and then bounced around ON A BALL. I swear, sometimes I really am awesome.

People ask sometimes how I got such good balance, or how it is that I can pop my shoulder out of place so easily without it hurting.
Because I've done it so often, that's why XD T he first few times I popped my hips out of place, shoulders, etc., it hurt like a BITCH. And I got such good balance because I would be doing stupid shit, like trying to walk on monkey bars, fall off, pop a shoulder or hip out of it's joint, and have to pop it back. And then I'd just do it again. I have no sense of mortality, and pain does not seem to be something that easily persuades me against dumb shit. So it was self preservation. My determination and stupidity outweigh my fear.

As my friend K says, for being 23, I sure act like a retarded 7 year old often enough.



I'm not really double jointed.
I'm just stubborn.
LOL
Nah, I am.
It rocks.


Also, heart is fine.




I got pissed last night.
Chopped FIVE INCHES off of my hair.
FIVE.
FIIIIIIVE.
AT LEAST.

Well, six, if you count how short it ultimately ended after I finished cleaning it up.

{BAHLETED}

HEED IT.
Picture will be gone in 24 hours.
I am so freaking fat.

I'm gonna only eat 1000 calories a day. Which is still a lot, but I've been OMNOMNOMMING my way into oblivion the past few months. So I'm not weighing myself, and I'm gonna stick to 1000 cals, with a tops of 1500, methinks. 1500 is still "healthy" so my shrink can NOT give me shit over that.
Gotta.
Get.
Control.
And.
Lose.
Weight.

Or pant sizes. Fuck the scale. I just wanna get down another pant size.




Fun fact.
I lost a pound after I lopped off my hair.
A freaking pound.
No wonder it always made me get headaches when I pulled it up.

Dear spam commenter who signs with Chinese symbols and lots of links your ....... at the end of your posts:
You're like the finish line to my comments. After you, I know there will be no more comments left of actual value. I just reject you, and realize it's time for a new entry, because you always come in on the tail end of things.
I thank you for your consistent and timely posts. One day I'll approve, just long enough to visit your blog, and spam you back with links to giant roosters and the word "COCKS", so you will feel the love returned (plus, my boredom is just awesome).





Today, I played Survivor by myself on a bosu ball. Flip it over so the round side is down, stand on the flat part, and then jump around in circles trying to not lose your balance. Now try and do this with a sprained ankle and knee.
AWESOME.

I worked out. It was pretty good. Can't do cardio, because my left knee is shagged, which means I've been walking crookedy on my ankle, which has now caused that to be damaged.


And yesterday was a bad food day. Yet...I still lost a pound?
Not that it matters.
I'm at 126.
BLAH.
Getting down, again. I hate jumping up. But my new diet pill regimine should help. I'm doing an alternating month/stacking. So this month is Lipo 6x Black Hers. I'm going to work up to doing the 6 pills a day by the end of this month, then switch to Meltdown for next month, and work my way up, then back to Lipo again. Apparently, it helps to keep your metabolism jerked around, and not let you get used to the pills. I'm on 3/day right now of the Lipo 6x's. I get hungry, but I feel so sick it's hard to eat.



I also did full out squats, with the barbell across my shoulders and neck.
Ow.
Only got 15lbs on each side.
Holy hell, you guys.









ok i was going to write more but my chest hurts.
My heart rate just jumped up to 112 resting.
I feel like I'm going to die.
I'm going to go curl up and put my head between my legs and get my shit together.
This is why you don't take a seriously hardcore weightloss pill, an excedrin, Adderall, and a shot of five hour energy, all washed down with some diet pepsi, at the same time.

Really bad idea.
If I die, know I went out the way I lived.....





......Naked.
HOORAH.

P-p-p-pimpin' and purgin! THATS HOW WE ROLL!

HOLLA AT YO DADDY!
....Right.
YESTERDAY was awesome. My diet pills made me feel tres tres sick. That, or I'm allergic to bad Mexican renditions of Happy Birthday that use tamborines for elaboration. I didn't even know they kept making tamborines after the 70's ended and people quit the drugs. Don't you have to test positive for LSD to even GET one of those?
Anyway. Had steak tacos. Went home. Decided, hey, I feel sick. Let's get my purge pen and VOMIT. I didn't have my normal sharpie--it's been eaten by the clutter in my bathroom drawers. So I used a real pen. Wound up nearly choking to death on a chunk of steak that decided to lodge in my throat during it's trip for the encore in my mouth. Tried to dig it out with the pen, and it didn't work out too well. True yuck is having to reswallow chunks of chewed meat because you can't manage to throw it up all the way. It's the first time I've purged mid day. Right after I had been like, "Maybe I don't have an eating disorder anymore..." because I've been all sorts of...not...giving a damn about eating lately. And then I went and ate ice cream. And a few donuts. And then when I tried to go all purgey again? SHAZAAM PEN STAB TO THE BACK OF THE THROAT. HOORAH. I am awesome. Imagine having to go to the emergency room for that?

"Uuuuhm, yeah, see, I'm dating a guy with a really tiny dick, and thought hey, why not practice?"






.....better than the truth, I guess.








Might actually earn me more pity than, "I couldn't put down the donuts because I am a lardass in desperate need of a stapled stomach and a wired shut jaw. And preferably a kick to my testes--mental, at least, since, you know, I have a vagina, and last I checked, we don't have testes--to get my ass in gear and stop eating like I weigh 400 pounds, am named Bertha, and am married to my cousin and live on fried chicken and graaaavy."
YEEHAW!
I need a confederate flag, some collectible Nascar KFC buckets, and a Budlight hat. SLAP MY BACK FAT AND CALL ME AN AMERICAN!





I feel so unpatriotic right now.

I AM A PROUD AMERICAN. I like my country just fine. Just...not the fact that we have less people than China...and yet...collectively...we probably weigh more than them. We put the "MOOOOO" in "we don't MOOOOOOVE"? ....right. ANYWAY.


PIMP TIME!

FOLLOW THESE FINE ASS BITCHES!
I PROMISE!
THEY ARE NOT NAMED BERTHA AND THEY HAVE NO NASCAR BUCKETS OF KFC!
AND IF THEY DO, ITS OKAY. THEY STILL ROCK.



See has a lot of followers, but that's because she freaking DESERVES THEM. She rocks that shit like it's hot. And by that shit, I mean my dick, and by my dick, I mean, well....my genitalia. SHE TURNS ME ON (and she's an awesome writer. AND she posted a picture of herself, and she's abso-fucking-lutely-GORGEOUS, so go tap that follow button and love her face).



Fat Ballerina should have more followers than she does, because I didn't realize she had so little. She's freaking AMAZING, her sense of humor makes me wiggle in my seat, and her name is just awesome. She'll be the fat Ballerina, Kazehana will be the baby manatee (she has a baby manatee dance, she told me this!) and I will be your local Wubba Lubba. Together, we form OPTIMUS FAT! DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE! (ALSO She's underage, so be careful to not get too molestful of her, because, you know, jail time and all. Just wait a year until she reaches proper age of consent? *Starts ticking off days* ♥ )


PERI IS MY FUTURE WIFE EVEN IF SHE DOESN'T KNOW IT YET!
I plan to marry her, and put her barefoot in my KITCHEN. Not...making food. That would be awkward? But kitchens are where women belong! Or at least, that's what my Nascar, Budlight wearing, Bertha-named, back fat possessing alter ego so claims. GET ME A BEER, WOMAN!
Actually, she's freaking AMAZING. I love the hell out of her and her face, and wish she lived closer so I could go pounce on her and crush her with my 1/3 of the Optimus Fat self that is me (AWKWARDLY CONSTRUCTED SENTENCE--GO!). She's absolutely amazing, leaves me the BESTEST COMMENTS and I really wish I could hug her head to smithereens. Only...without the smithereens death bit. You know what I'm saying, right?



ROBIN has only TWO FOLLOWERS RIGHT NOW YOU GUYS.
FIX THAT SHIT!
She's lost an amazing amount of weight so far, and will do fantastically on her journey. I know that she can do it, and have no question in her abilities! She's also, apparently, new to the blogging world, so let's get her a good support group!


Hazy didn't ask for a follower pimp, but I'm doing it anyway, just because I ♥ her, and she has only 13 followers, and she needs more, because her writing is amazing. Plus, she has a picture of a cupcake that says "I hate you", which is my new love in life. That cupcake hates me. And therefor, will not make me eat it.
FOOD HATES YOU!
What an awesome concept.
AVOID IT! IT WILL KILL YOU!
YAAAAY!



(From Hazy's Blog)


AND LAST BUT MOST DEF NOT LEAST!
FLUSHED! The apple to my eye, the light of my life, the "NG!" to my hungery (and if you were hear, you'd realize the "ng" is pronounced with an orgasmy face, because she is my hunger-sex-buddy!), and the FLAME TO MY...UHM....THERMOGENIC REACTIONS IN MY BODY!
She's the one who can tell me to put the food down, and I listen!
IF IT WEREN'T FOR HER, I'D BE A MILLION POUNDS NOW!
SO GO LOVE HER OK?!


OKAY THAT IS ALL FOR NOW.

BYE!

♥
PrettyWreck

(PS I just got new Lipo6x Black Hers, which, lemme tell you, makes me feel siiiiiiick as fuuuuuck. Here's to hoping it works! And I'm falling off the Prozac. I'm hoping that'll stop me from eeeating EVERYTHING, but...I started taking it because I was...? OH WELL we'll figure it out.)

Apparently, I'm also your Daddy.

I'm strange, so I'm not going to really write much detail about my own inner emotions or affections at this moment.
What I will do is say this,
shame on you girls (and boys)!
How can two of the most awesome people in the world, who comment a LOT on mine and other peoples blogs, still have so little followers?
Go molest the FUCK outta Hana's blog with your help and your love, and then go sex up (not literally, because she's totally under age of consent) our Crazy Angel, who admittedly is MUCH younger than my general limit for following, but what can I say? An interesting blog is an interesting blog.
Just, you know, don't encourage into bad habits too much. But that's an overall rule. Love, accept, encourage, but don't be like, "STARVE YOU FAT BITCH!" because then I'll have to hunt you down and stab you in the eye with a broom handle. Then the cops will get involved, and then I'll have to pull out the rake, and there'll be the whole issue with trying to get the shovel removed from evidence again and really, it's just a mess. A big mess.




I'm really out of it right now. Barely sleeping.
Hoorah.




On a good note, while my eating has been shit, I've fallen into something of a more "normal" eating pattern? I think my head is fragile right now, which is...weird to say.
I've been becoming increasingly dissassociative. Today when I was rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, I had the strangest feeling that my hands weren't my hands. That they belonged to someone else. That I couldn't control what they were doing. I've been functioning on auto pilot in all but my trainer job, and even then, I feel myself crumpling when no one is looking, then as soon as I go to walk out, my whole body suddenly switches on, the smile going on high voltage, the energy pumping up, my shoulders rolling back with pride and confidence. Slipping between two personalities and I'm not sure which holds the title of "This is actually me". I think it's both me. Just...with a rift, at the moment.

Today I got distracted from getting ready for twenty minutes by watching the way my belly button moved.
I see things flitting by out of the corner of my eye. In front of my eyes. My body always aches. My head starts going to strange things, entertaining odd ideas. I've snapped and kicked the handle off of a desk. I've kicked a dent into a wooden door that's three inches thick and solid as can be. Not out of anger, but out of a feeling of boredom that overwhelmed me and made me want to explode, it was so painful. I've started entertaining the notion of illegal substances again, though I swore to myself I would never use them. NOt meth, never meth, but ephedra is currently within my reach, and the taste of it, albeit as of yet not experienced by myself, is something that my tongue is aching for. If it means I can stay awake, and keep at bay the exhaustion that is always dogging my heels? Then perhaps, perhaps it is worth it.



I feel like my head is stretched. And I've lost all thoughts of food, or past traumas, or anything that means anything, and have just started moving, because if I thought beyond the self preservation of day to day...the too taught strings of this mental violin would snap. They've gotten close before. Pulled to the point of tension until I was screaming and rushing to my therapist.
It's a strange thing indeed.






But I love my trainer job.
I feel complete there.
I feel whole there.
It's odd, to be so passionate. It's never a chore to be my trainer self. Well, I mean, it is. It's a challenge, and exhausting, but I can't tell you how much I love that challenge. Yesterday, we got the results for one of my favorite girls. She had lost over 2% body fat in 10 days. Had lost an inch and a half off of her waist. Her bicep caliper test went down from being able to grasp 18mm of body fat to only 13. That was the one witht he biggest change. I had to redo her measurements multiple times, just to see if they were accurate. Then she started to scream and cry, and hugged me so had I couldn't breathe, and I had goosebumps, and I literally ran out and showed her off to other trainers, and another client who is also part of the ex-fat-girls club (which is what me and another female trainer, who had also been in the 30+ BMI range, call ourselves). Everyone was so happy, and my boss even got excited. They all reminded her about plateaus, too, which is a huge relief, because she needs to hear about the dangers of it from more than just me, and that she has to hold on to this joy when she hits that plateau.

But I promised her, when I took her on as a client, and she was so desperate and crying, and worried about paying, that I would do everything in my power to make sure that she never was at that weight again. I give her every third session for free, if not more. I told her if she does two sessions with me a week, then I'll give her every other session that week that she wants without her having to pay. I'm getting a waitressing job, so I'll be able to spend more time with her. It's about the money, yes, but I want to make sure she's better. That she never hurts like she did again, and when she said I didn't have to do that, I told her, "I made you a promise that I was going toh elp you, and I want to make sure that I keep my end of the deal. I'm going to do everything I can to help you get where you want, and to make sure you're happy with yourself, ok?" Which had also made her cry, lol!

But to see someone so happy, and to sit there, and realize, without a single doubt in my mind, that I helped to cause that, and that I am a positive influence in someones life?
Well...
...there's nothing more beautiful than that.
I never felt so happy as when I walked out of there. All day yesterday was spent reveling in the realization that I'm in the right career. That I'm in a spot where I can help people, and give them the tools they need. That what I'm doing is not only fun, but valuable, and that I don't need to feel so guilty about having such a great time at work. Because I do. I feel like because I'm not bored, or because it doesn't feel like work, that I'm somehow not doing it right. That I'm not earning my pay. I feel guilty for getting paid sometimes for having clients that I can double over in laughter while talking to, or wind up spending an extra hour with them off the clock because we can't stop telling jokes. But then something like this happens, and I realize, holy shit. I'm actually doing my job. I'm helping people. I'm having fun and getting results, and I'm doing it well!
It's...
well.
lol

I think if I didn't have that right now, I'd go insane.
I think when I get out of my security job, into a serving job, I'll feel better. Just the...feeling of going insane from having to switch so often through the day between what I love, to what I hate--of having to go from happy, self-motivated, people who are almost all friends and don't gossip, to the beaurcratic, dramatic, boring, back stabbing environment of the security job--is putting me through the ringer. Plus, the working 14 hours without...you know...real weekends...........


.........bah.
I'm not even gonna say my weight.
It's disgusting.

Go follow those people.
Love them.
And if you comment on me regularly, and I don't visit you a lot, or you don't have more than like, 30 followers, totally let me know, ok? I hate when people comment a lot but don't get the return love theyd eserve, and I'm so damn busy all the time that it makes it nearly impossible for me to go reading blogs like I used to, so this is like, the least I can do--pimping you I mean. Trying to tell more people to check you out. Consider it my "Until I get more free time in my day" way of giving you all love, ok? So let me know, and I'll give you props in another post to hopefully get you guys more love and support.
And I'll pimp you because, let's face it. I am Daddy. And all ya'll are mah bitches.








.......right.
Ok.
I'm going to go have coffee now.
(If you really want me to pimp you, post in your comment, "PIMP ME HARD, DADDY!" ....I seriously gotta see how many of you guys do this XD I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH!)

STAY STRONG GIRLIES AND BOYOS!
I'm off to go track down my diet pills and adderall.

HOORAH.

To everything turn, turn, turn. There is a season....

Thursday: 5.5 mile run, 58-60 minutes (including warm up and cool down). 3 miles in 31:28. 4 miles in 42. Total: 2740 calories burned
Friday: Zumba. 4 hours walk. Total: 2600.
Saturday: Eat.
Sunday: Eat.
Monday: .....liquid fast.



This is PrettyWreck.
This is PrettyWreck severely fluctuating weight every week, never seeming to go lower.

I've decided that I need to work on my intake and let it go up just a little, but I have to be careful. I'm falling into Coed. And not just my run of the mill binge cycles, but I'm talking bad. I'm talking, I eat until my stomach is swollen out and a hard, solid mass, and I can't walk without feeling like I"m going to vomit. It's physically painful, I can't breathe, my blood pressure goes up, and my heart rate is through the roof. I eat what I'm allergic to, even. I can't stop. I physically cannot stop. And then I wait until the discomfort subsides just enough to start eating again.
It's a vicious cycle.
Weight gain, weight loss.
Starving.
Gorging.
Deprivation.
Gluttony.
The calories consume me, even as I consume them.

It's a scary thing, you know? I see myself going into the cycle, and I've been there before, but I can't stop it. And it's not just food that I hunger for. This past weekend was literally a fest of compulsive cleaning, masturbation, and food. I could barely bring myself to shower between shoving myself under my bed to hand pick the lint out from the cracks in the tile, to stopping long enough to look at porn, to shoving my face full of anything. I wanted to go out partying. I wanted to go dance. I wanted to go drink, and I never drink. My mood was strange, and manic, and obsessed, and I couldn't stop it. I was stressed over food, over lint, over dust....My room is always messy, and I cleaned it spotless and then purposefully made it messy again.
Even laid the mess out in a certain pattern so it was familiar, organized, and disastrous all at once.

Panic manic. Manic panic.
Move move move.
Eat eat eat.
Starve starve starve.
This is the turning of my life.
Overtaken. Overwhelmed. Out of control. Seeking it without regard or remorse.
My eating disorder has stopped being unique in the ultimate layout of my life. It's stopped being new. It's sunken in to being just another aspect of the disorders that I possess. Just like my sex drives waxes and wanes depending on my period, and my moods fluctuates as well, so does my eating habits. And in that, it's becoming so out of control. Don't eat, eat. Don't eat. Eat. Trust. Don't trust. Lust. Don't lust. Indulge. Deny.

Back and forth, back and forth, no middle ground.
Can't find a middle ground.
It's not allowed.

Comfort is stagnancy, stagnancy is a lack of growth, and a lack of growth is death.
If I ever got comfortable--if I ever became content and happy--I'd become stagnant and I'd die.
I wouldn't make the difference I need to.
If there's anything at all.
I think instead I'm just spiraling. Like going down a great corkscrew slide. Of course there's no middle ground. You're thrown around the edges of this thing over and over, the force trying to drag you to the center but never able to reach it. Left, right, left, right, spinning down, thinking you're able to reach out and get to the center and that middle spot eventually but when you actually do, it's just because you're dumped onto the ground with an inelegant thump and your journey is done.
Death looks so pretty when we don't realize what it is.

Be happy for your pain.
It shows you still breathe.





My lust is in high gear.
I'm convincing myself of the negative aspects of unattached sex.
Especially with coworkers.


Is it too much to ask for a pretty girl who won't go crazy?
Or a man of muscles who smells nice, doesn't do drugs, and won't stalk me?
Or to ask for either free of drugs and STDs?
Or is that like, impossible now?

Ah, one can only dream.




I blame the need to fuck another coworker (not G, but now ANOTHER that I like) on the liquid fast I'm on. My mouth is craving something to chew on, and good lord, C looks delicious.

Surra de Pink Eye, and other related atrocities

Me: Can I lick you?
Friend: ...what? WHY?!
Me: I'm low on protein and craving beef, so I figured I'd see if I could lick a cow.
Friend: .....fuck you.
*five minutes later*
Me: Can I lick you?
Friend: NO!
Me: I'm craving sugar, and honey, you're sweet as can be!
Friend: ....*Facepalm*


**

Client: ...you LIKE him, don't you? G?
Me: Is it that obvious?
Client: Oh, honey, you can tell you both got something going on for each other.
Me: Seriously? He is so out of my league.
Client: ....what?
Me: What? He's...well...him. And I'm still a fat kid!
Client: ....come here.
Me: .....why?
Client: I'm going to fucking hit you now, you stupid skinny whore.
Me: I--NO--*Gets hit* ACK! OW! DAMN IT!



Client: ....[finishing off story]...and this grown woman was pointing with her kids and laughing at me. I could hear them calling me names about my weight! *Looking pissed*
Me: Are you fucking SERIOUS?
Client: Yeah! I mean, they were beautiful. They were a skinny, beautiful family, don't get me wrong, but how can you be happy if you're sitting there, a grown woman, ruthlessly mocking bigger people with your preteen daughters? Can you imagine the damage you're doing to them?
Me: That's a fucking Eating Disorder waiting to happen right there!
Client: OH MY GOD RIGHT?
Me: You know what you should do?
Client: Hm?
Me: Get a big cookie. And then sit there in your bathing suit the next time you see them, and eat it. Just all *Makes orgasm face and pretends to nom* OMNOMNOM OMFG this cookie is SOOOO good! Oh, yes *Moans* I'm so lucky my husband loves me just the way I am....Oh I love being this happy....Mmmmmm
Client: *Cracks up* Oh that is the best revenge!


**

Boy: A personal trainer? Damn. I was wondering how you got so fit.
Me: *After having just come fresh outta session w/ therapist regarding skewed body image, curious look* Haha, thanks! Yeah, I still have a lot more to go, but it's nice to know it's appreciated.
Boy: I think you're set as you are.



Boy: [Sent later in txt] It was awesome 2 meet u. I couldn't stop staring the whole time your so gorgeous. Hit me up & we can go to movies or hang out later.




**


Excerpts from my day.
Binged yesterday. But honestly? I have no regrets.
Regrets won't help. I hated myself at the time, but now there's nothing to do but fix the damage done.
Today is liquids. I'm on a V8 juice with having already drinken half of a Monster Light, chocolate flavor (OMNOMNOM SO DELISH). Tuesday I burned 2740 calories, yesterday was 2477. Today, I wanna reach 2500. Might run a little bit. Not sure yet. Depends on how I feel when I get off work.
Had therapy, then a client, now at my security job.

My weight is 123.2 yesterday, 124.8 today from the binge, but 123.8 before going into my security job.
On a good note, in the past month, while my weight hasn't much changed, my measurements have.

My waist yesterday was an exact 26 inches (prebinge, not sure about now), having gone down from 26.5 inches. My body fat has gone down from 25%, to 23.8%. I'm getting closer to my goal of having it around 18%. Slowly but surely!
My bodybugg program has me at almost 10% bodyfat for when I reach my goal weight! I wonder if that's possible without wearing myself into the ground? O.o

HOORAH.

I now own two pairs of shorts.
I get strange looks, and flirted with a lot.
Which confuses the fuck outta me.
My legs JIGGLE and like...get squeezed by the shorts when I sit down.
SO LONG AS I AM STANDING AND STANDING STILL I look fine.
When I walk?
WATCH OUT TOKYO
GODZILLA IS ON HER WAY!






Because razing Tokyo, stomping through villages, and breathing fire out of my massive snout is a full time job, you guys. It's exhausting, be a large she beast of mammoth proportions. I'm short, but wide, and I will steam roll you like the flea you are! LOOK OUT
DON'T MAKE ME SMACK YOU WITH MY THIGH FAT!






OH SPEAKING OF AWKWARDLY SHOVING YOUR FAT INTO PEOPLES FACES
WATCH THIS CHUBBY GIRL PERFORM THE MOST DISTURBING DANCE IN THE HISTORY OF EVER
AND SHOW YOU WHERE PINK EYE COMES FROM!
You have to get at least 40 seconds into it, ok? Just...for what she does to that poor guy.

neurosis.

We have good intentions of longevity.
Just no realistic means on how to get there.
Nor much of a desire to truly pursue it, if it can't be done on our own terms.


Grant me life, grant me liberty, grant me my safety blankets.
Do you think I wish to have my obsessions? My need to kiss the back of my two right knuckles every twenty seconds when lost in thought, thinking that it will somehow excuse the rancid self deprecation or strange fantasies that play through my mind? This need to murmur a prayer every every few steps as I move, lost in the stories I write, to whatever God may be listening, "I'm playing right now, God." As if this omnipotent being won't realize the world I make in my head isn't real....like those thoughts don't apply to my day to day routine.
Or that I enjoy having to have the same amount of pieces on each side of my mouth? That I must start first right-left-right-left, bowl of cereal? Count out the cocoa puffs in the spoon--five pieces right, five pieces left. Rarely chew on each side at the same time, and if I do, I have to count out the bits with my tongue to make sure it's even. Otherwise, my head feels too heavy on one side, and it will drive me up the wall.

Do I like having my gums ache from the violence with which I gnaw the insides of my cheeks?
Do I like having bloody marks across my back from where I've picked at my skin?
Do I enjoy the need to pick at my fingers, or to have to click my car alarm repeatedly at a frantic pace until I hear it beep three times? With the exact pulse in the middle.... "Beepbeep---------beep." Or that my obsession with numbers is comfortable? The need for either evens, or divisible by three....nine. Four. Ten. Twelve. Two.
Three.
Sometimes three.
Three feels off balance. Off kilter. Off course.
It depends on what it is. But three is a tetchy number.
Nine is okay. Nine can be divided by three, three times. It is a safe number.


Do I like having to find patterns in the numbers I look at? Searching for meaning in liscence plates? In addresses? "1:23 PM" is when this draft was autosaved on my blogger. It's 124pm now. 1x2=2, 2x2=4, 4/2=2, 2/2=1. Counting. Rounding. Trying to find perfect squares. Trying to find fives, patterns of three. Always looking for patterns.

Having to kiss my rings when I wear them. To the point where they're always on my mind. Constant realizations of their existence, heavy laden with symbolism. Teddy bears that I feel like I can't get rid of, can't hurt, can't do things to, because of the spirits that live in them. Things that people can't touch because of how quickly it would ruin them....

....The feeling that the eyes of photographs are always watching me. Judgmental. That I'm never alone in my head. That there is some presence, always weighing it's judgment heavy on me.
That I can't exult in the positive or curse it. That I must never focus on the good, or revel in it, or feel superior in it, or rejoice too openly, because it will attract the negatives of the universe and it will cause it all to be ruined.
That I must always criticize myself. That I must always hate myself. That I must take quiet pride, and acknowledge good with a distant eye, but then focus only on the bad that must be corrected. The imperfections that need to be fixed.
The things that still lvie inside of me.
"I lost three pounds! ...I'm still fat."
Always just seconds of joy over accomplishments. Then forcing my thoughts to what is left.





I feel exhausted under the weight of my imperfections. Under the fears that constantly assail me.
I can't have the wasabe touch the california rolls in the container. Because then if it brushes against even one grain of rice, it's all contaminated. And everything the package of California rolls touches will then also be contaminated.
Waffles are filled with lies and terrifying things.
Stepping unevenly between lines in sidewalks will make my legs feel off track.
I can feel the cracks on my feet in the pavement, even through my shoes. Tingling spots that need to be balances, having to alter steps, making sure each foot shares an equal number of times the toes fall behind the lines, or each foot gets an equal amount of times it first steps over the crack, and an equal distance.
I have to sometimes force my eyes up and bite my cheeks bloody if I don't want to focus on it.
It drives me insane.
It makes me want to scream.
Counting. Numbers.
One two three, one two three.
Everything to a rhythm.
No sentence is ever perfect.
No words are ever correct.

Odds and evens, odds never able to exist unless it's five or three, and then having to work with the equations. Squares, patterns, numbers of, factors of, always looking for deeper meaning, for deeper symbols, for some sign of life or something to prove that there's a purpose or a cause or another presence and yet so afraid of that presence and it's judgment and loving it at the same time.
Feeling like there are multiple personalities and beings observing from the outside.
The gods of my private faith, and the eyes of millions of others, always assessing, judging. Some keep me sane. But others hate me. Make me feel guilt.
Guilt if I eat.
Guilt if I don't.
Guilt for loving hunger.
Guilt for loving fullness.
Guilt for loving the taste of food.
Guilt for hating it.
Guilt for thinking about.
Guilt for being so selfish as to be concerned with it.
Guilt for not being good enough.
Guilt for not being a better trainer.
Guilt for not being a better friend.
Guilt for daring to feel guilty.
Guilt for daring to be sad.
Guilt for daring to be happy.
Guilt for daring to be proud.
Guilt for judging myself too harshly.
Guilt for never judging myself harshly enough.



I shut off my mind.
Function through emotions with a decided lack of emotions.
The more I'm removed, the easier it is.
I throw myself into the lives off others, into the minds of others, existing always in their eyes and forgetting for a while that I am trapped behind my own. Molding myself to be what they want me to be, and dreading those moments when I come back down to who I am. To the neurosis that consumes me.
Number patterns.
Chewed cheeks.
Picked on back.
Bloody cuticles.
Constant twitches.
Kissed knuckles.
Murmured prayers.
Strange rituals.

The scent of lavender causing panic attacks.
The smell of cotton candy perfume causing longing.


If there was a way to silent my thoughts and hush the cacophony that is my internal voice, I would.
I know I'll never be good enough to meet the standards of my own mind.
To assuage the voices and opinions of the millions of eyes that live behind my own, turned inward instead of out, gauging ruthlessly the value of the body and the person who resides within it.
There's too much contradiction to make every shard of me happy.
And so I am stuck as this.
A person who looks into mirrors and fears that things are there that cannot be reflected, looming behind me. Who is afraid of closing their eyes and washing their face in front of one, because they worry their reflection will not move, just stare at them in judgment. The person who does not recognize herself in photos, mirrors, puddles on the ground....

I am stuck as me.
The binger.
The starver.
The trainer.
The trained.
The torturer.
The tortured.
The guilty.
The guileless.
The free.
The enslaved.
Whoever that may be.

2 parts weightloss, 1 part migraine. Mix well.

123.


Ok.
Yeah.
Sure.
Whatever.
Why not?
I've been gaining and losing the same five pounds for the past three weeks and not hitting my period. And yesterday? I got up to 1290 calories, and....what? Instead of gaining like I have been anytime I exceed 900 for the past three weeks, I lose 2 pounds?
Oh, and top that off with a nice dollop of waking up with a blaring migraine.





Sure. That makes awesome sense.
And no, it's not "bumping up my metabolism" because I keep binging, so my metabolism has been well bumped. I have no self control lately.
And apparently my body has no regard for the laws of thermodynamics.
Hoorah.




Freaking A you guys. The guy who made up the rules of energy-in, energy-out, seriously needs to take a look at my metabolism and see that it defies all laws of reality.
That, or I am seriously fucking up on calculating my energy-in more than I thought.
Which is the most likely scenario.
(Energy in being calories consumed).





On another note.
I bought shorts.
First pair I've owned since I was like...12.
At least, outside of pajamas.





Fear the thunderthighs.

Looking for faces in the clouds....

Life is strange indeed.




Fleeting and fragile. Ephemeral. Tragically beautiful.

And we, the players, are the Dark Vibrancy of the universe--beings of energy, of gravity--the supermassive blackholes of mankind. We are creatures of grace and splendor. Blistering black stars emitting light and rays of energy so intense it can burn and mold the universe, even as we collapse inward on ourselves. There is an event horizon that exists in our souls. Beyond that, no light can survive.

Yet we glow. We glow brighter than any star. We emit light and chaos that looks so controlled, so glorious, even as we are on pathways of self destruction.
Beautiful necessities.
Rarities.
The strangest, most observed, least understood stars in all the galaxies combined. We are silent in our screams. Not even sound escapes the gravitational pull of our inevitable demise...





The words are prettier in my head.
Everything is choppy right now.



Did my first fast yesterday! Only 24 hours, but I made it. I had one slimfast near the end, which I'm angry at myself for, but I was at my security job, and had to deal with a disruptive student, and I had gotten very tired and dizzy. I woke up at 124.6 today. Down from 125.6 yesterday. Then when I stepped on the scale after having first meal today, and going to my doctors, I was down to 123.6! My body seriously confuses the HELL outta me.




A friend of mine, C, has turned serious stalker. We've been friends for 7 years, and he suddenly has realized he's in love with me. He started getting really depressed and I tried to make him feel better, but then he started showing up at my different jobs. When I got sick, I didn't tell him, and dropped off the face of the earth for about a week, and he started sending me shit on line that was really angry, and then sent me a text message. "I'm having dark solutions to dark thoughts about me and you."





....right. I had a nightmare about my ex after he sent that. That she and I were dancing. The one who ran the cult, and fucked me up and gave me PTSD. When I dream about her, I always feel like it's inevitable that I return. Like...I'm defeated in my dreams, and I can never, ever escape. Like I'm almost relieved it's happened, because I don't have to stress anymore, and I can tell myself it's not that bad.....

....I talked to him again. Talked him down. But I'm starting to get pissed. I'm going to meet with him, in public, with some friends that are very, very large (guy friends) and confront C. Tell him we can't be friends anymore, and that he needs to get his shit together. I'm going to word it the way I really feel--not afraid for my life, because while I am, it's not the sole motivator (just a HUGE ONE). No...but as being the best for him. He's starting to get somewhere now that's VERY BAD. And he's going to do something he regrets, and he needs to really, really just....get his act together, and he can't do that with me around. When he's more stable, and able to handle what we don't have together, and when he has gotten over this sudden obsession, then maybe we can try to be friends again. I'm just so pissed, because this guy has been one of my best friends for almost a full decade now...and I feel like he's taking my friend away from me.

Failsauce.

What makes things strange is that...I have been the victim of abuse before. No one has hit me. At least more than once. But I have been abused in various other ways, and ways that still weigh heavily on me, but I can tell you that unlike others you may see, who find themselves falling into the same traps again, I don't. I refuse to. I get so angry when I see it coming. When people pull shit like this, I don't cower, I don't get scared. While I have that startling realization that things can go bad with anyone, at any time, and trust is always relative to the moment and mental stability of the person (and that you don't ever truly know another person)...that realization does not translate over into crippling fear.

It's like getting my wallet stolen.
I get angry.
I get pissed.
I get furious.

How dare you think to do this to me? To act like this? To pull this shit? What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you think I'll lay here and fucking die? That you deserve somehow to have me be with you? To be more than my friend? You're a great person, but you deserve someone who cares about you, and you cannot make me care, and I will not make myself miserable for you. How dare you presume to include me in your stupid dellusions without my explicit permission?
I will never let someone hurt me. Kill me. No matter how much I love them.
Because nobody is worth that much affection.
In my mind, it's being nine or ten again. My stepmom of the time hauling off and smacking me. And me...not crying. Not qualing. But me freezing. And then me getting angry. Attacking her until she cowered. Until she feared me. Until she screamed for me to stop. It's baring my teeth and screaming at the top of my lungs You are not my mother! You will NEVER put a finger on me!


It's facing off to JR again when his gun was held in my face, laughing while everyone else was screaming. Grabbing that fucking barrel. Don't be such a fucking pussy. Pull the trigger, or put it away. But I didn't take your shit, retard.



It's curling my hands into fists, throwing my head back, and shouting. It's the alpha dog inside this small females body. The fire and force that lies dormant. The rage that never fully fades.
It is the survivor. The fierce torrential rains. The fucking animal that I love inside of me.



Do not presume to dominate me. Do not presume to make your victim.
Do not presume to make your fascination. Your obsession.
I will destroy you. Accidentally, or at will.
And if I turn my sites on you, and tear you down of my volition, with purpose, cause, and the full intensity of this wrath inside of me?
I know full well, it will be my own mercy that will allow you to survive.



I was the victim before.
I will never be your victim again.
I will never be anyones victim again.
The only person allowed to hurt me is me.
The only person allowed to kill me is myself.
I will choose when I die. I will choose when I live.
I will choose when I burn.
I will choose when I fly.
And if someone takes that choice away from me?
I will damn well make them pay in the process.



I will never, ever, ever go down without a fight.

Terrible idea? Or greatest idea?

Called regional manager at security job a cum guzzling dickwad who could suck my left testicle, because the right was reserved for more important people.




Aaaaaaaaand somehow I'm still employed.
Somedays, I don't understand life.




Tired.
Fat.
Can't stop eating today.
Can't bring myself to care.
Norovirus.
FTW.
Not saying it's an excuse.
Just saying that the past two days I've barely been able to eat.
Now today I can't stop.
Like I'm trying to make up for it.
Oh well.
So fucking tired.



The end.