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Thursday, July 29, 2010

I am loved, and confused as to why.

I thought Boy was going to break up with me, and frankly, I was relieved. Playing the normal heterosexual female is tiring. But then he says that he wasn't trying to. He was nervous about telling me that he thinks I'm "the one".
"The One"?
Well take me to the Matrix and call me Neo!

.....right. I'm not sure what to say to him. I turned off my phone.

How do you respond to that?
I've tried to be as ugly as possible for him. He's seen my disorder. Gets frustrated at my refusal to give him a picture of me because I hate them. He hears me hate myself all the time. I've even stood him up on a date.
Yet still...I'm The One.
The One.
No pressure there.
Just the singular person he's meant to be with for the rest of eternity.
ANd I still can't get over the lack of tits he has.
I still see him as a temporary fling that I'll recover from.



Hung out with a girl from work today.
And her boyfriend.
I realized part way through that...she had told him about me.
In depth.

She told him things I had said. That I was "freaking amazing". He knew stories of times when I had exploded at our new boss at the gym. Had heard about the weird shit I'd said to her. She was laughing about the way I first said hello, with a joke that was, "You know how you are what you eat? (Cups bellybutton and poofs out stomach) BAGEL!" She was like, "She has NO insecurity. Isn't she just amazing?" She let me borrow her swimsuit and we went into the pool. Watched Invader Zim. And her friends? Knew about me.
Like...I had something to live up to.
They invited me out either tomorrow or this weekend.

My friend, KJ we'll call her, who I've known since high school....her boyfriend P keeps trying to get me to hang out with him. Says he misses me.
V, my ex girl I dated for a while, says she misses me and now that we're friends again, remembers why she loved me.

KG, another girl I was friends with, messaged me out of the blue about how much she misses me...'s like the universe is trying to tell me that I'm cared about. I've given up trying to please everyone, and suddenly....suddenly I have clients hugging me. I have people buying sessions out of nowhere. I have constant reminders that I'm somehow special, even though I'm not.

And the only thing I'm hung up on is that I got yelled at at work.
Like that's all that matters.
I feel like a failure for fucking up. For not being good enough. For being bad. For being terrible.
BIg boss won't be there tomorrow.
I just feel like a fool there right now.
Because I showed up at exactly the appointment time, and wasn't wearing my work shirt. And I know it's not allowed, but fuck it, I was rushed. C, one of the bosses, said it shows that I don't care, and that the client isn't important.
Which is exactly why she hugged me at the end of the session and thanked me repeatedly for being the "first person to have her best interest in mind".
For being someone who's "passionate, caring, and honest".
I'm totally not good with my clients.
I showed up at exactly 1 for a 1pm appointment and had to rush to get the shit together because they TOOK MY DESK AWAY FROM ME so all my prepared paperwork was fucked up, and that was my one flaw.
I drive one of my clients home every session.
I take calls at 2am from others who are depressed.

I've taken cold medicine to one when she was laid up sick.

BUt of course, my lack of being twenty minutes early....? Is evidence that


That's me.
Callous as can be.
Not that I care at all. I'm completely selfish. Love me and don't care about them. Totally into myself. Overflowing with ego and self righteousness. There's me, treating clients like they're just for the money, and it's wasting my time to give them any session because I"m not on time, regardless of the fact that I'll do sessions for free when they're broke, or that I'll do home calls and pick up prescriptions for them. A total asshole.


He has some point, to be honest. I'm a failure for punctuality. And I did stand up a client once when I was too worn out to move or get out of bed.
But...I just have blood poisoning right now.
And still haven't had a day off.
And am puking.
And shaking.
Cold sweats.
Surviving off of diet pills and a good 13 hours of sleep a night and still exhausted.... punctuality is totally my major problem.

Fuck them.
I need to go into private contracting as a trainer.

My integrity can't handle this job much longer. Not with the diet pills they make me peddle, or the way I have to sell training as if someone is INADEQUATE and NEEDS IT. I can't play on peoples insecurities like that. I want to make them better, and make them healthier. I don't want people to wind up like me.

Rant over now.

Why do I have so much good and positive, and yet the negative still cripples me so?
I don't think the Prozac is working.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

I am not your fucking cautionary tale....

Let's get something clear.
I am no god damned cautionary tale.

I posed a question to myself, when I thought about the fact that the symptoms I had mere weeks ago, I realized, were all those of a heart attack brought about by lack of food and overdose of stimulants.
The aching jaw, the pain in the sternum and gut, the dizziness and shortness of breath...
...I looked in the mirror at my fat, flotsam like body, and demanded, "Would you rather be alive or thin? Do you want to live? Or do you want to be thin?"

....and the answer was so fucking obvious.
There is no life without thinness.
There is no purpose without perfection.

I am fat.
I am a fucking whale.
And I take no pride on my obesity. My waist is almost back up to 26 inches, my arms jiggle, my stomach is bloated, and I've exceeded 3500 calories a day for three days.
I am a shame to my own eating disorder.
But I am not a shame to myself.
I am no cautionary tale.
I am no promotion of this disease.
I am me.
I binge and purge, starve and eat like the most extreme of seasons.
I get excited at the thought that I might be dying.
I take stimulants enough to kill most folk, and relish in the realization that I'm fading.
Not because of any sort of ideals of divinity, but I am simply that fucking depressed and not able to carry through on my desire to just straight out off myself.
I'm not worthy of suicide.
I'm not thin enough yet.

I can't give up yet, because I'm not worthy of death.
Death is the reward, and to die before I have fully decayed would be to fail.

You see, we all die at some point.
And I'm going to die in pursuit of what I love.

I will never leave this behind.
I don't ever want to recover.
I'm angry and hateful at me, and I've realized I've been this way since I was a little kid. No therapy nor pharmaceuticals have ever helped. The only thing that helps is the driven, pointed thinking of this disorder, and the rage and sense of purpose against myself that it gives me.

I will achieve my goals of perfection.
And I am going to die in the process.

When it happens, don't take me as a story of why it shouldn't be done. Don't use me for your stupid inspiration for recovery or relapse.
I'm not your tool. I'm not here to move you. To change you.
I'm not here to shatter your life or help you rebuild it.
Let me be just me.
Take just me.
What I am.
A self destructive little know it all with an outward superiority complex, rage issues, and no self esteem.
A girl with no acceptance of herself who loves the feel of petting the flap at the back of her throat to bring up bite by bite what she eats.
An insomniac who hurts herself when she sleeps.
A rage filled being often too tired to move, but too hyped up on stimulants and amphetamine to sleep.

A person.
Laughing and crying and screaming the whole time.

Andorgynous internally and outwardly feminine.

I am the Moth plummeting into the lanterns flame.
Cackling as I sizzle and pop.


Friday, July 23, 2010

Reverse Orgasms.

I was 124 this morning.
I keep telling myself it's my period waiting to start. But that doesn't make it better.
My appetite has sky rocketed. I just ate four slices of pizza, five chicken kickers, and half a large brownie. On top of the two slices of 50 cal toast with full fat butter and scrambled eggs I've eaten today.

Then I went and paid homage to Mia.

It's funny.
Sometimes, I wake up.

I'll be standing over the toilet. My fingers shoved down my throat. And I'm still me. I stop. Shaking my head like a dog. Make weird noises and stretch mouth as I prepare myself for another round of self-induced-gagging, and make odd comments to the graffiti on the walls. "Yeah, bitch, just like sucking your mom's dick!"
Then I dab at my face as delicately as I was taught with a rolled up wad of toilet paper, my pinky sticking out as my mother taught me in my etiquette lessons, before carefully folding the toilet paper, dabbing off the sputum from my finger, and then delving it back into my esophagus.
And then, as I'm stroking that flap of skin, making strange faces as I try to avoid scratching that delicate flesh with my nail....I stop, and think, "What in the hell am I doing?"
Then it hits.
The vomit comes.
Small mouthfuls at a time.
And I know what I'm doing.
But I don't process it.
It's an action that has no thought. It just is. I can't consider it. Can't really question it. If I do, the guilt hits, and when the guilt comes, so, too, comes the anxiety, and the anxiety brings with it food, and terrible self hatred, and eventually, cradling another bottle of store-bought sleeping pills to my breast.

I wonder what people would think if they knew.
Then I don't wonder anything at all.
I just do it.
It makes the anxiety better for a little bit.

I stop. Not when it's all out, but because I tell myself to. The toilet is full, my throat is aching. I think, "If I stop before it's all out, then it's not laziness. It's control. I start when I want, end when I want." Just like I first thought when I stopped eating.
"It's not anorexia, or an eating disorder. It's an experiment. I can stop whenever I want."

Or like I tell myself from time to time.
"I can eat normal whenever I want to. I just don't want to, yet."

....sweet denial. How you taste of salt and vinegar and bile on my tongue, wrapping me up in the warmth of your lies.

I'm so tired.

I want to go purge more.
But mostly
I just want to go to sleep.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Well, it was bound to happen at some point, wasn't it?
The inevitable post-starvation OMNOMNOM myself into oblivion.
That was yesterday.

Today, I had a full out panic attack when faced with a taco. And didn't eat all of it. And am currently very pleased with having not eaten a lot, but still managing to feel full. Only because I'm drinking that much diet soda and water.

My neck hurts and I'm tired.
Whine whine whine, I hate work, three jobs sucks, etc. etc., read through my last five posts and it's all reiterations of the same trite bullshit of how much I hate my security job and aches and pains and blah blah blah blahblahblah cocks blah blah blah weightloss, blah blah blah, your mom.

Same shit, different day.

ADHD is a federally recognized disability.
I had to walk out of a movie today for my Health Card, and you're not supposed to. Sitting became painful. And not because I was freshly shagged (which I'm not, sadly), but only because I had to sit still, and it wasn't working. My page, in the first ten minutes, was covered with sketches of faces and "SHAMWOW" written all over the back, and I couldn't stop twitching. When I walked out, the woman asked what was going on, and I told her I'd try again later, but this was my third time in the class. She asked why, I showed her the meds...she told me to take a breather and go back in when I was ready, because, "They have to make allotments for people with disabilities", and I think I must have looked at her like she was NUTS.

But it's okay! I finally got through my class.

I'm at 123.6 from 120. Because I'm a fat fat girl.
Time to get back down, though.
Aiming for 117 this time.
I can do it.
Because I rock.
And I fucked your mom.
(Not really....)
(....or did I? Oooooh, mysterious.....)

I've run out of words now!


Monday, July 19, 2010

......woah o.o

...fifteen unapproved comments in the space of hour?
I'm not sure who linked to me, but whoever did, I fucking love you. Thank you to everyone for all the love. You guys rock my literal pants off.
No joke. I'm now sitting here sans trousers.
(Not really. I have them on still. But I wish I could rip them off....I'm at my job I'm close to quitting, so it's really hard to RESIST that temptation, too!)

I think I'm turning bullimic.
I broke my vow and purged in a public facility. Two times in two days. I've lost almost 7 pounds these past 7 days, but as many of you like me out there know, almost seven is not yet seven, and fifty still wouldn't even be good enough. I've come to the firm conclusion that I don't think I'll ever be done in my own mind. There will always be flaws and faults, and I'll just have to keep going until something happens to make me stop.

To those of you reading this considering getting into the disorder, or returning from your recovery, take this as your message to stop.
A friend of mine on another site died from this fairly recently. And I find myself toeing the same line she did. She collapsed while running, and injured her head, falling into a coma before she finally perished. Only a year older than me.
I've collapsed--not quite fainted--three times.

This is life. This is life slowly slipping.
I hope you enjoy watching me plummet. I enjoy sharing my fall.
Live vicariously through me, but do not repeat these mistakes. I am an entertainer, here to martyr myself for your amusement.

Part of me feels slightly bitter, though I think that's the jalapeno cheese I just regurgitated. I don't feel anymore depressed. The Prozac my shrink gave me was supposed to help control the impulses to binge and purge, but in fact, it only makes it easier to starve, and I feel much more calm when I throw up. My fingers pet that flap of flesh that separates lungs from gullet, and the food comes up like a gentle tide from my mouth. I've even stopped freaking out when a little bit of the toilet water splatters on my face. The sensation of winning by losing is so much more precious to me.

I went shopping.
Pulled on a pair of size 3's. They fit loosely.
Took a size 2 dress, just for a bit of fun, to see how far off I was from fitting. Took a size 4, which is my normal.

The 4 slipped off my shoulders.
The 2 fit me like a charm.

I bought it.
I can't afford it. But I think I would have died if I didn't walk out right then with that dress.

Up close and personal with a set of the most hideous calves you've ever seen rocked in a little black dress:

Front view of the nastiest tits to ever exist on a 23 year old body:

I got it for my brothers wedding, technically. And the woman who was running the dressing room said it looked "sexy". I plan to wear a white lace cami under it, to hide the tits, and also the nastiness of the bra and gross underarms and flabby skin on the side.

How is it that I'm so large, and yet wear something that's a size 2? I see that I'm getting tinier, but it's like...I don't exactly know how to word it.... taking me, and shrinking me, but...keeping the fat?'s still there. The shapes and rolls and nastiness. They're all still there.
But they're just...smaller versions now.
I wish I could lose weight in my nose.
It's gigantic.
It and my ears speak volumes to my Jewish and....uhm...elephant? heritage? I don't know. I know the nose is my Jewish side. The ears must be because someone in my families past bumped uglies with Dumbo. Can't think of anything else.

I love you all. Have my babies.
Wish me luck.
I was 120 this morning.
I want to be down to 119 by tomorrow. Or 119.something. Just so long as I see that drop to under 120, but I doubt it. I ate too much, and didn't throw it all up, because I fail like that.


Sunday, July 18, 2010

Fainting spells, boys, binging, purging

Two fingers down the throat.
Reached back. Felt that little flap of skin. Didn't bother with the purge pen--felt too impersonal. The gag reflex hit like a punch to the gut, before everything moved so easily out of me. Gentler than swallowing, the roil of the chest and stomach, the spilling of the contents, the sticky viscous fluid pouring over my fingers and arm. My teeth never clenched on my knuckles. My hand never left my throat.

Pet, pet, pet--good girl, give me a little more....

Like a reverse orgasm (as Flushed so put it), the loving, tender touches to the strangeness of my inner neck cavity bringing forth the desired results of sin and dirtiness in my gut.

200 calories purged.

Weigh myself.

.6 pounds lost.


Off to work. Server job. Rushing back and forth. Hunger. More and more, heavier and heavier. Atrophex swallowed down pill after pill. I sneak half a roll, and a quarter of a brownie. Down a teaspoon full of salt. My hands shake. The pills kick in after nearly eight. Just like the song, Hunger soon passes, sickness soon rise. Legs bent stockinged, I am Twiggy, and I don't mind the horror that surrounds me so.... The food quits being a temptation. My hands stop shaking.

Rushing between tables.

Boy shows up. I see him, see his face. He waits, watches as I move through the dinner rush. His hand rests on my hipbone and the stress melts. When I drop something in a frantic rush of my first afternoon working, he drags me back into a side room and lifts me in a hug so quick I can do nothing but wrap my legs around his waist and let him cradle me against his body. It's perfect in every sense of the word. He smells like the subtle hint of desert dust, sweat, and his shampoo. I press my face into his neck and he kisses behind my ear. Calm down, he whispers against the shell of it. And I do.

Another hour passes. He slips subtle hugs and kisses. His lips are sweet and full. My heart thunders. He picks me up every chance he gets.

And when I faint, he catches me. Tells me to eat. Kneels down in front of me and makes me vow that I will have something as soon as I get home.

I don't want to.
But I do.
Because he reminds me that one of my friends died of this.

That he knows? That I told him? Speaks volumes.

I'm falling for you, he tells me after walking me to my car, picking me up, holding me. He carries me every chance he gets. Whispers, You're so tiny, constantly. Makes me feel safe. I never have to doubt around him.
So quick.
So frightening.
His arms are safety and everything I've been craving for, and I know distance must be kept. Like with food, the refrain makes the caving that much sweeter. I need to take things slowly, just to make sure this isn't ruined. That we don't rush in too quick and spoil this.

I'm terrified.
I'm happy.
I'm scared.
I feel more unsettled than I ever have in my life, but it's a sweet thing.

Toast. Real butter. A golden grahams cereal bar. Club soda.
The biggest meal of the day.
My stomach feels swollen. Disgusting.
I want to shove my fingers in my throat.
Even without it, I still feel the nausea, roiling. The stress that urges me to stay away from food. I can't eat with it this upset.

But his smile plays in my mind.

Damn it all.
But it's too cute for me to deny him this simple request.

I'm not ready to die yet.
And if he hadn't caught me, my head was aiming for a very sharp corner, and because he's not here right now, I have to make sure I don't die before I can see that smile again.

Life is a strange thing, indeed.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

So, MacGuyver is currently less itchy than expected, though part of his eye peeks out through my shorts. It's a new addition to the ecclectic scars covering my legs from Self Injury, which most people are too nervous to ask questions about.

I made bank in tips today, considering how few tables I actually had. There were three of us, and keep in mind, the place is a small locals spot, so there's regulars, and the tips aren't always the best. And there's only like....14 tables, with three servers, and a slow arrival of people, since our area is hit pretty hard by the recession. I still made $37 from a 6 hour shift, and add that on the about $8.25/hour I make...? They take off $1/hour for tips (so I don't have to file separately for the tips I make) and an extra $10/paycheck that I have figure in the past two days I've been working on my own, I've made about....$75/day? After adding in tips to the paycheck? Which averages out to about $11/hour. And apparently, when it's just me and one other server (meaning, when I'm not still on "training" mode), I'll be making MORE in'm pretty happy. We'll see how it goes when I actually get my paycheck.....

So, Boy, aka, R, and I are dating, I suppose? But on the same note, what I said about life and relationships and Katy Perry in an entry a while back, is basically that California Girls probably don't find themselves in the predicament I'm in.
H and T are a husband and wife. Young 30's. Rich. One is basically a physicist, the other an emergency veterinarian. She's....fucking perfect, and he has like...7% body fat.
He acts as her dominant...meaning they play bondage games, and she's the pet.

....they want me to join them.
And I...don't think I'd mind.
They're both geeks. He made her a Lego rose for their second date. They have a giant death star. She has TITS. Boys...well, the more I'm around R, while he's perfect, I realize that boys just don't INTEREST me that much, and I'd mostly be HERS. I'd be his, too, but he and I would be more of friends who had sexy times when she was involved, and I'm TOTALLY okay with this. They want me to visit them out East, and they're coming to visit me, and see how things go. And things feel really cool and right with them, and not just because I want someone to care about me.

They're obsessive over how I exercise, and making sure I do it, but also what I eat....and they yell at me when I eat bad foods. So I like that.

Point is, they have the boy, which I seem to want some times...and they have TITS.
So I'm at a cross roads. On one side, an emotionally fulfilling heterosexual relationship with the male version of me.

On the other side, a polyamorous couple who can take me away from my home town, give me mind blowing sex, and who things might not work out with in the long run, but I'll still be able to motorboat myself into oblivion with a girl who puts as much stock as I do in the importance of a well rounded education involving Star Wars VS Star Trek.
And they're INCREDIBLY smart.

I don't know.

This shit always happens.

Point is, life is a strange beast.

I'm at 121.6 or something. .8? I forget. Point is, I only gained 1.4 pounds from my binge yesterday, which makes me very happy. I thoroughly expected to gain more, considering how much I ate. Which puts me at a 5 pound loss since last Monday. I'm back to eating nothing, living on Atrophex, Adderall, and diet soda. I feel very sick, have burned almost 2000 calories and it's only 4:48pm, and I'm very pleased with that. I'm going to be burning a lot at this server job, and I work an even longer, busier schedule tomorrow, working the swing shift there. While it's hard, being on my feet that long is very fulfilling, and it seriously has been starting to shape up my legs.

My waist went from 26.5 inches on Monday, to 25.5 inches yesterday morning.

The only down side is being around all that food, all the time, makes me seriously fiend. And I wind up pulling the complete antithesis to my trainer job, and urging people to get the most fattening, terrible foods, just so I can smell it, see it, stare at it, and watch them eat it. It's like...directing porn. Like telling someone, "Now touch them there...lick them here...." and being able to tell them just how to do it, how to taste it, but never being able to touch or taste for yourself. It makes my stomach knot, and I find myself watching almost rapt as they eat, and disguising it constant vigilance. I'm always at the table the moment their soda runs out to replace it, always there to clear their plates, recommending the best desserts, judging their faces to find what the best tasting foods are and making the best recommendations. Not because I know first hand how the burger is the juiciest in town, or how the brownie a la mode melts in your mouth, but because I watch the flutter of lashes of other customers. Hear their quiet murmurs as their overly large, inflated jaws open to emit the fat filled grease, adding to the heavy weight holding down arms and stomach, making their moans of pleasure reverberate like they live inside of an ampitheater.

Horrifying. Addicting.
I watch with both disgust and jealousy.
Constantly hungry.
Constantly smiling.
Like a ravenous shark.
Jaws wired shut.

Every time I want to give in and wrap my mouth around a french fry or biscuits and gravy, I slip another diet pill into my mouth and down enough diet pepsi to make me feel sick.

The overload of Atrophex soon makes my stomach churn, and the smell of the food becomes a sating factor in and of itself.

Like exercising while looking at pizza. Equating the refrain to the loss of calories. I find myself content with only staring, not with tasting. The less I have, the less I want to consume, and just to smell. To watch.
I get the guilty pleasure of vicariously living through their tastebuds, while watching my own self melt away.
Feeling naught an ounce of withdrawal, nor an ounce of rage from staying away.
I am so inundated with these foods that how can I ever claim to be deprived?
Not a morsel passes my lips, yet I am satisfied.

I shrink.
They grow.
I get the pleasure of smelling, touching, handling, watching, serving.
They simply get to eat.
And then regret.
I know the food longer.
I know it intimately. From the moment it is delivered, I am watching, seeing as it takes shape, watching as it is formed into the concotions that become such addictions.
It's almost nurturing it. Handing it off to another. It is in my possession, under my calm and steady touch, much longer than it is on their plate or in their stomachs. I get the pleasure of making, smelling, preparing, serving....they get only their distended bellies and growing waistlines.

Perhaps that is a wicked way to approach it.
But it appears to be working.
My mouth may water from time to time. I may steal the heel of a slice of bread with butter, enjoying it with more pleasure than they do the whole of their steak and eggs and four slices of toast. But I am still losing. I am still smelling. I am still touching.
And I am stronger for it.

I am a mean and evil person from time to time.
But the hunger makes me feel more powerful than a Roman Emperor.
The dizziness more potent than Napoleon at his peak.

This is a war I fight. A war on hunger, a war on my body, a war on everything.
I am hunger's supplicant. Ana's Neophite.
And I will be strong. I will be as healthy as possible, but I will still refrain, and I will succeed.

Stay Strong, lovelies.


Friday, July 16, 2010

My Self-Injury is named MacGuyver

Not even kidding. See the giant smiley face I carved into my leg this morning? His name is MacGuyver. He likes long walks on the beach, and when his maker doesn't eat. For noms are evil, and the body is best left purified and starved.

homnomnom. HI MACGUYVER!

Yes. I totally named my SI. I'm ridic like that. Totally need a new hobby, NOT GONNA LIE.

So I'm getting kicked out of my house. Boy has declared I'm the most perfect thing to walk this earth and I've found out that I am terribly not happy with anything. I've barely been doing anything but working, my computer has died, I have no life outside of my place of employment, I feel immensly dirty in the realm of sexual relations, and I am officially going to be attending Catholic classes come September for potential conversion.

I also handed my suicide pack to a Deacon today and went, "Ok, you can have this now, because I'm about to use it". I only went to the church for two reasons, and they rather contradicted each other. The first one was that I wanted a place to make me feel not alone, so I wouldn't be so tempted to omnomnom on some sleep aids. The second...was to be in a place where it would be quiet and peaceful enough so I wouldn't feel so alone when I did omnomnom on those sleep aids.


I feel better now. Obviously, I didn't eat them. But I did eat a KFC Sammich and fries. Most of both. I've lost 6 pounds since Monday, in the ultimate "I fucking hate my life/food/YAAAAY ANXIETY!" fast EVER. Today is the first day I've tried to get anything in, and I did it after the church, after talking to the Deacon, because I think I just wanted to stop being dizzy. I've collapsed like, twice. It's been awesome.

I still can't stand the thought of food, and I'm afraid I"m going to start craving it again. I keep hearing that I'm so skinny. The Deacon said he couldn't believe that something would exist to make a girl as beautiful as me want to end it. Boy says I'm the most perfect thing to ever exist. G, the one who was all muscled that I lusted like a loony after at the gym wrapped his hands around my waist and went, "....FUCK you're getting so tiny. You're starting to get too tiny...." and my boss C, at the gym (aka, Harry Potter) who only likes anorexics, was like, "We should have sex," which ended with, "....and then there were trannies", and it was an interesting story. I mean, we didn't have sex. And there were no trannies, but the conversation line went from us potentially sexing to there being trannies and a porcupine.

Oddly, I think he's as fucked up as I am. It makes me feel nice to know I'm not alone in my silent misery.

I feel disgusting. ANd now exhausted. Truly tired for the first time since Monday, when I stopped eating. I don't have anywhere to be. I took the night off of work. I've done my gym job. NOw I have laundry, and I don't know what else. My computer is broken, so I'm on my parents, and I won't have access to it for long since I' know...getting kicked out and all.

Fantastic times.

Woot woot.

I feel so gross for eating.

I'm going to go pop more diet pills and aderall, and maybe purge or something.
Then I'm going to sit here and feel EMO or BE LIKE "STABBY STAB STAB CONCERT" and "CUT MY WRISTS AND SLASH MY THROAT, I MUST BE EMO!" all song like.

......the end.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

What is this boyfriend thing you speak of?

Dear Life:


So, new serving job is hella fun. And I had two clients today, and I think I might have more if I work at it. I'm currently working three jobs, and I'm so high strung, that I'm actually getting the violent shakes. It's seriously fucking nuts.
Could also be the lack of food?
You'd think my lack wouldn't be so BIG, because of all the shit I shovel into my gob, yet still reaching up to something like, 1400 calories yesterday, I woke up and was at 124.4 this morning, from 126.6. I hate number patterns, and for me to have lost 2.2 pounds so much? Is starting to make me want to drop kick my scale, or myself.
But they're comforting. But NOT. THEY ARE IRRITATING when they come to my weight.
I don't know. They make me happy to see them, because I sort of attach and wonderful symbolism to them, but then I get so anxious about them sometimes, that I get ridiculously panicky over it.

Anyway, the reason why life is confusing.

Life is confusing because Katie Perry can suck my cock. California girls got nothin on the girls where I'm from. Why do I say that?

I currently have a choice.
I've met the most amazing guy.
He's....everything I think I've been whining about not finding. I can be so ME around him. We work together at my server job, and we met up today for lunch, and he didn't even bat an eye when I just got a diet pepsi and no food. We had an intense discussion as to whether Chuck Norris or Abe Lincoln would win in a fight to the death (and of course, the answer is Lincoln--he has a better beard, and that is the key to their strength), how much studying I would need to become an undead elimination specialist versus just your run of the mill zombie hunter, and then his friend joined us and I discovered they have the habit of breaking out into random ninja fights with swords, and his friends jaw hit the table when I announced that I must be present to participate in the next.

The gym has a different type of folk, and I love them, but I think being around this boy (let's call him R, and his friend, M), has made me realize that...holy know how long it's been since I've been just me?
Like...just me. Just me, in all my chilled, fucked up, awkward glory. Just...sitting back, making your mom jokes, poking fun at people, making references to old Star Trek episodes and Trogdor, and knowing other people who find tag or sword fights to be as fulfilling of spending a Saturday night as I do.

And...I think he and I might be dating. Or very close to it. Shit just...happened quick. I met him on my first day working as a server (he works security at the place), and next thing I know....we're texting back and forth. YESTERDAY was my first day. And suddenly today?
We meet for lunch...he doesn't question when I only order a diet pepsi. We talk. Laugh. Just...chill.

And he messages me with the cutest things. "Your smile is cute as a button, but its your laugh that I really love".
My laugh is so geeky.
So is his.
His nose wrinkles. His eyes go wide, then scrunch up.
He's adorable.

He makes me smile when I start to hate me.
He brings out a playful side to me. The side that wants to play videogames and make bad jokes and smoke hookah and watch terribly awkward anime and cartoons and have a best friend and a relationship and just be...if not normal...then happy.
He makes me want to be happy.
Two days, and it's weird, but I just...feel like my whole world has shifted in that time.

Like...he scares me.
Absolutely terrifies me.
Because I just...I don't even want him to know about my past. About the cult, or what she did to me, or what happened when I was a kid.
I don't want him to know there's anything damaged there.
I don't want him to see how ruined I am.
I want him to like me.

He does pot. But he says I'd be his perfect reason to quit. He says he only smokes occassionally. He'd be willing to sit through a Firefly marathon with me.
He knows Invader Zim like I do.
He makes Your Mom jokes.

But yeah.

And there was more. More relationship nonsense, another option I have, but...I think R and I might...I don't know.
I think this could be good? Healthy? Special?
I'm like a kicked dog. An abused one.
I like people like G, generally. Who are drug addicts, partying too hard using women and tossing them aside. I've been flirting with people and looking for someone and none of it works, and I think it's because I keep going for people who I know it won't work with. And he just...literally came outta nowhere, and I'm so very confused.

I feel so fat today, too. And it's strange. I'm so scared of him, and of this...and I keep hating myself the more we talk, but I don't stop talking to him?

I'm very hungry.
My body fat is down to 23.5%. But I'm still very gross.
I keep hearing I'm thin.
That I'm pretty.
That I'm something special.
I'm not.

I never have been.
I never will be.
It makes me sad sometimes.

Me and my unspecial, fat tummy.

I feel like he'd accept me. If he knew. All of it. That he'd be okay with it.
And that's the reason I think I need to hide it from him most.

So silly of PrettyWreck.
Why couldn't this be easy and I fall for a girl with big boobies? Vaginas are so much less scary and they are so familiar to me. Girl relationships.
Of course, I did. But...K is now engaged.
And....oddly....thinking about R? I'm okay with his lack of tits.
Maybe that'll change.
If any of you have read me, you all know how fickle I am.
Man, woman, whatever.

Done now.
I keep getting distracted.
Sorry if this entry sucks.

Monday, July 12, 2010



So, this weekend? Shot to hell in a handbasket. Flushed was close by, and I wound up landed on my ass the whole fucking weekend. I don't even remember most of yesterday, except for being at the gym, and suddenly starting to slur my words with a client. I drove him home, got in the house, and then the next thing I remember is waking up on the couch shaking. Got food, I think...don't remember so much what I ate, but I know I drove and got it. Took more meds than one person should be able to handle, and I passed out at some point, but I don't know when.

Today I woke up with still a lingering migraine, angry because I haven't had one that bad since I was fat (which leads me to believe that it's not just in my head that I'm gaining weight), at 5am, and had to bust ass out to my new job.

I'm now a waitress.
I'm around food.
All day.

I was so hungry by mid morning. I woofed down some crackers. And then a piece of carrot cake and some taco salad. I felt so weak while I was standing there, inhaling this food. I ate only maybe 1/3 of the taco salad, or maybe a full half, and then the full piece of carrot cake. ON a good note, I"ve gotten 1564 calories burned, and it's only 3pm. And today was a slow day.
My knee hurts.
But it's okay.
And last night, I don't know when it happened, but I think I dislocated my shoulder. I can pop one of them out of socket, like I can with my hips, and I do it sometimes when shit hurts too much to relieve the pain. It's not a full dislocation, but I can pretty much twist it in ways it shouldn't, and I fell asleep with it that way at one point, because my arm is hurting in a very strange way. I'm not double jointed out of birth, I'm double jointed out of damned necessity.

I'm also really tired.

Turned in my two weeks at my security job.
Currently wearing a petite size 4 pants. At New York and Company on Friday, I was fitting into a size 2 average, size 4 petites. Size XS average, size SM petite. My new shirts are all XS. I was getting pissed off. Because I'm not a size two.
I'm still at 126.
My waist is still 26 inches.
My body fat is only 23.5.
The pant sizes lie to me.
I'm so freaking HUGENORMOUS.

Watch the amazing PrettyWreck DEVOUR DOWNTOWN DETROIT (I don't live there, but I hear their skyscrapers are DELICIOUS)!

Monday, July 5, 2010

I starve.... a poemy, by me!

I'm sick of silence.
Hunger. Overwhelming and
Quiet subliminal messages for temptation
and reminders of
why I must strip this body
down to skin and bone.
Finger nails bitten,
callouses picked,
cuticles bloody,
hands swollen and trembling,
insides in knots--
--the physical symptoms of the shock
of this internal war I have.
This slow and steady scrub brush taken
to my soul
in hopes of getting
Every morsel another scar on my soul.
Every calorie another smear of mud on my mind.
Every ounce of fat
another outward symbol of my sin.
I starve to be as frail as I feel
somewhere within.
I starve to be as delicate,
as damaged,
on the outside,
as my heart both symbolically and literally is.
I deprive myself in hopes of one day
turning to ashes and dust at a gust of wind--
--of floating away like fake snowflakes in a summer breeze.
Of crumbling under the pressure
from both outside and in.
I starve because the weight of the world on my shoulders
is heavy enough
without the weight of the fat in me.
Because maybe when I'm tiny enough,
when all the padding and muffling flesh
has faded,
people will hear the sound of my screams.

Because I'm praying someone will see me shattering,
and breathe a touch of life back into me.

I starve in hopes of finding salvation
Of one day...
Of one day making myself clean.


Aaaand another bad poem, by me.
The end.

Sunday, July 4, 2010


Your mom, not the horse.
AAAAHAHAHAHAHA, no, actually, it was the horse.
(Not that you can tell really. They both have similar faces and weights. OBURN.)

But in all seriousness, I went and rode a horse for the FIRST TIME today. I mean, I rode once before, on a trail, but today was my first real ride. A client decided it was a sin that I had never done it, so she took me, her three kids, and her baby sitter out to the stables her Dad keeps their horse at, and we went riding. I almost didn't go, because we had to do a carwash at the gym for a charity drive, and while it was a pretty nice day (didn't go over 104 the whole time, which, yes, is absolutely AMAZING for where I live), after four hours, we were all fucking WHOOPED. But I went, and it was freaking...just....perfect. I can't even describe it.
My first time, and I wound up getting him into a full run, while controlled. Some people were shooting off fireworks early, and I had him doing laps to keep him from breaking into a full panic, because he seemed to get real tetchy, and I know when I get tetchy and anxious, I have to move, and with direction, or else i go insane. So I just figured he'd probably be like me, since he's considerably young (only 6), and high energy. When the fireworks started going off, I had him walk around in different directions, talking calmly to him, and then nudged him into a full gallop, and we were doing circles and zig zags. When we finished, the owner of the horse looked like he was panicked, and demanded if I was okay. I told him, "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" All confused. But apparently...they thought the horse had taken off, and were surprised that I a) wasn't screaming and panicked and b) actually was in control of the whole thing, or that c) I was the one that had instigated the run to begin with.

Apparently, for a newbie at the horse thing, I was pretty damned amazing. Not to brag. But I am awesome. Though I think I somehow persuaded him with my tits. Because the horse nipped at everyone, but kept trying to just lick my boobs.
What can I say? They're delicious.

That was so much fun. You guys have no idea. I was invited to go back whenever I wanted, and I am seriously taking them up on the offer. It felt so FREE.

And on a great note, it burned a LOT of calories. I've officially burned 2464kcal for July 3, 2010. My start weight of the day was 123.8, which is amazing, considering I've been stuck at 126 for EVER.
I'm back into my food panic mode. terrible and wonderful all at once.


Is it sick that restriction and my ED feel like coming home?


Anyway, me and my horse-drawing sugar tits of joy, are going to go nom on some ice and curl up in bed.
I guess I'm supposed to be hurting from the work out that is horseback riding? And every one of my horseback riding friends are making wagers on just how sore I'll be in the morning?
Honestly, I don't feel a damned thing.
I even got to ride him bareback when we were putting him up, which required a lot of leg action, but...I'm an endurance athlete? So...I dunno!
I guess I'll figure out in the morning!

Also, for those of you that don't know? Go watch Ray William Johnson on youtube. I've been on a kick. Which is why I'm obsessed with the song, "Doin' your mom, doin' doin' doin' your mom, I'm doin your mom!"