I'm a big believer in Art Nouveau. Everything's pastel with clean lines and nice thick black outlines.
But as much as I love him, Alphonse Mucha gets under my skin.
Don't get me wrong, who doesn't love a stupid psychedelic Mucha poster in their fresher dorms or perhaps Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
But have you noticed those women? Come on. It's like every painting is a personification of "HELLO I'M FERTILE IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES." Then people have the gall to tell me that Mucha painted real women and demonstrates a truer form. Uh fuck that. Where's the little pudge and cellulite? Everything's curvy and smooth and luxurious.
Then there's me again. At my high weight, I become somewhat of a pear.... with strange things occurring to my arms as if to say "Hello! Someone tried to give me wings but gave me fat flippers instead!" I want to ask Mucha why I don't have a buxom bosom to round out a curvasous ass. Thanks Alphonse, I'm pretty sure you just pasted 5 different women together to make one print.
Early photoshop ladies and gentlemen.
I guess I'm talking about this because I don't feel pretty. Again. I don't feel fat. I know I'm not fat. I mean, of course things could be tucked and slimmed and lasered away, but I'm under no impression that I look the way I did 45 pounds ago.
And if I know I'm not fat, why do I still care what I weigh? Why have I obsessed over converting kJ into calories when thoughtless brands don't list it? I walk around and feel like a shell of myself. It's not a terrible thing, just something different, I suppose. My clothes don't fit, my hair won't stop falling out, my skin is more bipolar than I am... but I glance at myself in shop windows and can truthfully say:
"There's no way I can get my thighs to touch even if I tried."
Maybe I'm not even afraid of getting fat. I didn't look horrible 10, 20, 30 pounds ago. But there were little flaws, tiny details about myself that I noticed when no one else did. I had to pick at the metaphorical scabs until they were gone... knowing full well my wounds would scar and I would still be unhappy.
I don't have a stomach anymore... but I don't have anything else either. And I can pad and prod to make myself appear more shapely, but in the end, haven't I been saying this whole thing was for myself? I can see the facade. What's left from all I've chipped away and broken off.
Generally, things get scapegoated on rather broad and untouchable people or objects to divert from the raw truth of the matter. I can stare at every painting or magazine cover shoot and wish for fragmented pieces of various girls to put together to make myself a new whole. Blame society for causing my insecurities. Chastise men for their unrealistic expectations.
But other people can see the same things I do, and--at the end of the day--peacefully walk away from it all. I can't let go of the obsession with myself.
Why can one look at art, commissioned decades or centuries past, and only see a reflection of her flawed self? What is it about beauty that is so offensive?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Why does my apartment have to be right next to the communal kitchen?
Ew. I'm such a whiner.
Must be more fabulous. Say it with me.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Starving doesn't count when you're so poor you can't afford food.
This is bullshit. My loans aren't coming in apparently for 2-3 weeks, apparently the English expect me to have brought a bunch of money (as if I just was getting loans for fun), food here is ridiculously over-priced (British people, you are all being swindled)... and I've already gone through my ₤160 that I scraped together to get here for stupid things like um transportation and adapters.
Bullshit. I can't even buy a scale so it doesn't matter if I lose weight on this pathetic "starving-in-the-slums-of-london" scheme I've got going on. Apparently Boots has a little scale, but I can't even force myself to think about getting on it, let alone going through with the whole ordeal.
Sigh. So I have 6 jars of babyfood, 10 granola bars (oh scratch that I only have 8 because I just ate 2 since my mouth was about to eat off my hand), 8 peaches, 3 bell peppers, and 2 cucumbers. I have stuff to make "squash" and I have juice for emergencies. In the past four days, I've probably eaten 1200 calories total, which is ordinarily amazing... except that yesterday I seriously walked the whole of Camden because I was too proud to ask for directions from Islington to UCL and was on my feet from 9AM to 6PM. Walking. And carrying my laptop in my rediculously pretty fossil satchel that made the financial support people believe I'm sure that I needed about as much money as someone on "The Hills."
TR is giving me all these stupid cheap food suggestions. They're all carbs and they're all binge foods. UGH. Whine whine whine. No seriously, I'm incredibly happy to be in London... despite getting lost and hungry. I'm still estatic.
Also everyone here is SO polite. People were tripping overthemselves to try and help me with my bags and wishing me luck. This is a good place to be. Aside from the things I don't like.
Cheers, <-- ugh, now I have to come up with something new since that's the catchphrase
P.S. Lulu, we are totally doing that. Plan on it.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
So According to An Email (why am I capitalizing everything)... from the embassy, my visa has been possessed and is being mailed to me. YAY! I'm not going to be stuck here. Loooooondon here I come! I know, it's a bit scary, isn't it? I promise I won't be an asshole American ;)
Bad News. The cold went against me and I gained weight. I'm not sure why this is. But now I'm sick and fat. Hmmm....
More later. I'm congested.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Can you describe what it's like to break your arm? Falling down a flight of stairs? Which is worse: slamming your hand in a door, or stubbing your toe on a piece of heavy furniture at full speed?
Our mind knows what pain is. But it forgets the intensity of pain. I can't really describe to you what my last tattoo was like or accurately compare it to spraining my ankle when I was 13. The brain quietly helps us forget these things. Quite lovely. Helps us heal. Keeps us going outside the door without worrying that the sky may fall.
It also makes us forget how bad binges are.
I thought I've been binging. Today, in the back of my mind, a little voice whispered, "You stupid idiot, you've been so spoiled these past few months complaining about nothing. This is what real pain feels like..."
I remembered why I binge... to feel something other than sadness or worse, complete emptiness. Focus a rush of senses and emotion on something else for a few brief moments. Believe I'm alive. Grieve over, and regret my mistake for the rest of the day. Knowing, knowing I've fucked up and might as well keep going and fill the bottomless pit inside me until the clock strikes midnight, when I have to face reality again.
I hate to binge. But I can't believe it's been so long. I missed you.
Ranch dressing is brown. I had to twist a lot of logic, but there's oil in it. Oil is definitely brown. I haven't had that hateful food in as long as I can remember. It's banished. (This indicates I should only drink green tea... I'll mull that one over)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
So, I'm not sure if I have a cold or the flu. I was hoping for the flu... except yesterday I gave myself permission to eat food. Bad idea. Stupid me.
Convinced myself Kraft mac/cheese was not brown because it's my comfort food. I won't eat any other kind because frankly the whole idea disgusts me. But I managed to eat the entire box by myself through the course of the day.
My intake wasn't much better. Jello, Cottage cheese & salted tomatoes, hummus & flaxseed chips, more jello, hummus and popcorn.
I am super fat. Like retaining water and sodium. Like 4 pounds. In one day.
I'm not as upset because I know that this might mean I'm done with the plateau. And that I get to abuse over-the-counter drugs again.
Today I ate a bowl of jello (safe and colorful), 1 piece of licorice, and 2 swedish fish. I had the candy because I forgot and after the swedish fish, I realized I was mindlessly eating and threw the other ones in my hand straight in the garbage. Proud. This shouldn't be something I'm throwing a party about because I literally have no appetite.
Anyway, so I'm still super excited about anti-Brown and I think you all should spread the word. To answer Anise's question about how I am defining the color brown (aka am I including things like taupe, carmel, fawn, etc.)... pretty much I'm going by ear and once I decide it's set in stone. For instance, white bread/pasta is brown... if you bleach your hair, it doesn't mean your not a brunette no matter how much you convince yourself. However, I am letting myself eat oatmeal, because I want to and it's filling and I won't binge on it. And PeriAdot, you eat marmite and vegemite if you damn well please, because this plan is everyone's plan. It won't work if you can't tailor it to yourself (DID YOU HEAR THAT EVERY FAD DIET EVER INVENTED?! FUCK YOU FOR NOT WORKING!).
Yes, for me hummus is brown. So I choose a hummus where the main ingrediant is edemamme or tomatoes... lower calories and prettier.
Um, so yeah. It felt like the flu but I don't have the fever, body aches, and general dying feeling I had yesterday. So it must be a cold. But if you still want to get sick, send me a personal belonging and I'll try my best to infect it and send it back hahaha.
Oh, in seriousness... I've been thinking about "bookcrossing" my copy of Wasted to someone, except not really going by the rules because I want someone I know who wants it to read it since I don't have a use for it anymore lol. So if anyone wants and thinks I'm not a stalker, feel free to email me w/ a link to your blog or profile (as I'm forgetful) and we can arrange some sort of mailing of it. Yes, it means I'll find out where you live-ish, but it also means you'll find out where I live haha (I wouldn't recommend this if your parents open your mail, or are curious fellows).
Anyway, much love and all my affection. Have to be a photog for my friend's art adventure. I'll show some pictures of it later since I think it's really neat and I kind of helped with the right hand lol.
EDIT: Okay, here it is. Go look at it because I made my eyes bleed photographing the thing and because it looks neat haha. I couldn't have it in my house without bad dreams and an addiction to Ambien, but hopefully she wins the "Nine" contest she's entering. Anyone seen the movie? Tim Burton doesn't get me out of the house anymore... his love affair with Johnny Depp has worn me out. But don't let me being a Debbie Downer keep you from enjoying his creativity and softball-team of eccentrics he's banded together.
Oh, so yeah. When you want to eat just look at the creature. It wants to kill you. Also it thinks your a whimp and wants to kill you. I know I'm not going to raid the fridge tonight (ack I really want to though).
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
OK. I'm going to make this quick, as this should be a work in progress and I want feedback. Also, I think I'm getting sick. I have that phlegm-y taste in my mouth after I cough and my nose is all gross... and my stomach is acting up.
I HOPE IT'S THE FLU!!! I'm sorry, but being sick is the best diet ever.
Here is my much anticipated new plan. I think it's brilliant.
I even did research at a restaurant (No. I can't even call it that... it was a "diner") and a grocery store to see how well my New Regime did in Consumer Tests.
It's Called: The Anti-Brown
You may not eat anything, ANYTHING that is colored or resembles a food or beverage that is brown in nature. Don't even think about it as "giving up something" because brown is no longer an option. Brown is poison.
I mean, think about it. What is brown that's actually safe? Um very little. Therefore, just throw it all out.
The above picture is me being grossed out at the picture that I have cleverly found a way to do my own version of a "livejournal" cut for those of you who want to see an example of why brown food isn't tastey... it isn't gross. But it's food.
Oh yeah, A) I dyed my hair black B) That is an example of some of my mother's crazy weird lazy cooking. She called that... um... goulash. That's not what it is. It's a mess of stuff. Sadly, it tasted great.
But it looks horrible. No color.
So there you go. Look for color, stay away from the browns! Nothing about brown is good.
So just by cutting out the browns you are cutting out so many bingy breads, pastas, meat, pastries, cookies, chocolate, coffee (black is fine), colas, all grains (if you want to get super picky)...
And opening up a world full of colorful fruits and veggies, green tea, popcorn, black beans, (for those of you who aren't vegan --> egg whites, yogurt, and fat-free cottage cheese)...
Example 3: On my personal grocery store hunt to see if this was possible, I looked through the "hummus" dips to see if I could find any alternative to my horrible sinful love... UM traded in my 90cal-per-2tbsp drab brown for 35cal-per-2tbsp glamorous red tomato/basil hummus. Proof. Need I say more?
You aren't giving up anything. You are leaving the dingy world of boring gross looking food for a more exciting life full of beautiful colors that make you want to look at and eat your meals.
Go out and buy some Fiestaware to go with the new Regime.
Thoughts, comments, and general haberdashery always welcome...
Sunday, September 13, 2009
If you're taking either Alli or Xenical ... stop.
Both are being recalled and under lawsuit for causing heart and liver damage and in some cases organ failure.
We want to be thin. But I want you all to be alive more.
This has apparently been going on for the past month but they're still selling these products in the stores. I have never been supportive of Alli, but I didn't know how dangerous it was, I only knew how ridiculous it was.
So yeah. That's my Public Service Announcement of the day.
Every time I know I'm going out to a bar or a club, in the back of my mind I always think, "Jesus, I could be eating a bag of candy for every drink I'm going to have..."
Instead I don't eat anything and get the strongest drink I can think of. And I still don't get drunk. Rant of being a functional alcoholic later ;)
Have you ever felt really self-conscious about what you're wearing or how your hair looks one day? I hated the crowds in high school mainly because everyone would be standing in their little cliques, and if I walked by and a group was laughing I immediately would think, "Oh shit, I knew this didn't match! I'm a huge laughing stock." It didn't even matter if I heard the stupid joke someone had just told. Being insecure sucks.
On that note, I'm super afraid to show TR when I've changed my hair or my looks. I guess this is a rant on TR because his usually reaction is "It/You look(s) fine." What happened to those adjectives from 4 years ago? Gorgeous. Beautiful. Hott? Nope. Everything is fine. Or something is wrong. It makes me wonder if I'm a little bit more screwed up because of him... hmm. Perhaps guys just get comfortable and lazy after years into a relationship... hmm.
I can't sit through commercials anymore, so I don't usually watch a single program unless I'm stealing it on the internet. I get impatient and turn the channel.
Lately, no matter how important.... Ugh, I just got interrupted and now I can't remember what that thought was. I'm forgetful.
Oh, lately no matter how much (I don't know where "important" came from) I eat, I don't gain weight. I guess I've plateaued. At least when you gain weight, you know you can lose it.
I spend a vast amount of time putting on make up every morning. It's the most important thing I'll wear that day. But as soon as I leave the house and look in a mirror, I swear it's all melted off and I just have smudgy raccoon eyes.
Recently I went through my closet to trash/donate/keep old clothes. I can't think of a single one that didn't fit or was too big. This was exciting until I realized that in the early 90's everyone thought that children wearing a Men's Large was a good idea. Also, I found some old forgotten items that I thought would make me look quirky (i.e. saddle shoes and a Wishbone t-shirt) but it turns out that Urban Outfitters has already declared these things as cool, so I'm just another trendster.
My worst qualities are probably also my best ones. It's annoying when you're sitting in a job interview and the person asks "What's your biggest weakness?" Your head starts spinning and you know it's a trick question, but if you say something that makes it sound like your weakness is also your strength... you'll look like a douche.
I really wish I could pull off 1950s pin-up (I think TR does too) but I always ending up too costume-y or like I'm trying too hard to pretend and be Rockabilly or something. Sad day.
Hypocritical thought: I hate when people say tattoos are addictive, but I've already got 2-3 planned out that I'd like to get.
I can't keep things up for long. Structure isn't my friend... but I have become an amazing floss-er.
Autopsy comes from the Greek "To see for Oneself." I wonder why I'm so obsessed with looking at/thinking about crime scene photos, serial killers, and dead people. Perhaps it's my early introduction to the termination of life? Or maybe I'm one of those people who has the ability to do something terrible or creepy, but know you get caught, so you don't.
That's not a great excuse not to stray from your moral compass is it? Not because you know it's wrong, but because you might get in trouble. Childish really.
P.S. Remind me to tell you about my brilliant new food elimination plan. I thought of it at 2AM driving the other day, and though I still have to research it to make sure it's not flip-floppy, I'm pretty sure it will take away all the foods that plague my life :)
Friday, September 11, 2009
You know, it's not just because I'm afraid to go to bed and be left alone with my thoughts as I try to fall asleep... but I've dedicated about 6 hours to catching up on blogs. Don't congratulate me. I wouldn't have to do this if I hadn't been stupid and avoided them for weird unexplainable (even to myself) reasons.
But now I'm satisfied with myself. No, even more than that. It reminds me why I get on here all the time. It's not because I like getting the comments, or seeing how many followers I have, or even laughing about people who accidentally find my blog because they were searching for the lyrics to Billy Joel songs. This whole mess is so important to me because my own blog is nothing, but it's everyone I'm connected to that makes it all meaningful.
It's an experience.
Oh no. I have to stop before this turns into a creepy college paper and I throw in stupid pretentious words that don't mean anything except bullshitting your way into a better grade.
Anyway, what I wanted to say before I started waxing philosophical is that I'm really sorry I don't tell you all how much I appreciate you. Dear readers, followers, random people, and people I follow. You mean a lot to me.
Today was a really shitty long day, and it didn't seem to feel short until I started reading blogs again. The hours start to pass quickly when you're thinking about how to support someone who had an exciting week, or an unexpected setback.
And even though I've never met any of you, I'm glad that instead of wasting my efforts in bed feeling sorry for myself, I can try and read 100 different blogs and feel guilty that I'm not reading more in that sitting. Thanks for continuing to comment and read my rambling sadsack thoughts when I failed to support your ups and downs for the past month.
I don't care what anyone says or how horrific people try and portray us, but I think it's sad that everyone can't experience this kind of caring and support from a random group of scattered souls across the globe sharing something familiar but completely different.
So yeah. I'm going to get off the soap box. If this doesn't make sense, blame it on my over-indulgence in cherry juice, ABC world news, and the wee hours of the morning.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
We've had debates on here about in which season we get the hungriest.
I think, at least for me... it's a mater of inertia. Newton.
I've been in bed all day feeling sorry for myself about my Visa and thus feel no impulse to move and get any food. It's nothing to do with winter, it's the fact that it's much more appealing to stay wrapped up in the confines of my covers, and conversely, when I'm out and about it's easier to talk myself into eating.
It doesn't look good on the London front, there's like no way they can process my stupid second application and another $260 in a week and a half, when it took almost two months last time to get a snippy British rejection (yes, I can read your British accent) from the Embassy for something I didn't realize I needed to do. I don't know how I feel.
Somehow skinny feels blah right now, even if I'm not eating. It's no longer vogue that all my jeans literally fall off of me. Today, I went out to get the mail, cinched a belt over some pants to get them to stay on, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I swear I looked like my gaunt lanky boyfriend from high school, before I dumped him and he filled out and became gay, handsome, and learned how to dress.
There's pizza for me downstairs. I know if I eat it, I won't feel good. I know if I don't, I won't feel good.
I think I've finally found something I would bargain with God over, which makes paranoid me wonder if this means I should really make an effort to show non-existent-or-not-caring-said-omnipotent-individual that I'm really trying to get better so I can get my Visa before I get the opportunity because that kind of logic only makes sense to me...
Ugh. My momentum is gaining and it's getting me upset. I need to get back under the covers and be still again. But not mopey. Not moping. No mopes.
P.S. If anyone has magic powers/is Jesus/an Ambassador it's time for you to do me a favor.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I had an epiphany... this was after I momentarily decided I was going to try really really hard to think about how my mental illness has been contributing to recent chaos in my life, and how I should try and "recover" or "get better."
I don't need to get better. I just need more structure. I need to brush out my matted tresses, put some mascara on, and face the world head on. It's time for a new plan. This, I also realize, is an escape from my fear that I can't actually get better (I can stop at any time I want to I swear!).
Got off an airplane, trying to feel over confident and a little full-of-myself--I kind of have to if I want to pull of this magenta a-line hair and aviator glasses thing I've got going on--threw my bags in the car and immediately feigned food poisoning. In my defense, I think something is up because I'm feeling that nauseating sick feeling and I'm not even starving... yet.
Arrived in the safe confines of my home, where I know tomorrow I'll wake up to many anxiety producing tasks and daunting circumstances that life is throwing my way to see if I'll break. Thought about eating healthy again, weighed in for the first time in almost a week (110), drank 8oz of cherry juice, decided I was a glutton and that was the end of it.
Dunno what the plan will fully consist of, but it's definitely *got* to be Vegan&Wheat free. I want to vary my daily intake again. I need to keep my mother off my back. I will to start counting calories (on paper, not in my head!) and write down everything that enters my mouth.
A little bit of intentional neuroses to help balance out the ball of chaos that is my life right now, yes? OH, I just realized how happy this makes me because I can start making lists again! *plotting*
All my affection as I get myself back on track!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I put on the biggest show whenever I see TR. It's like I revert back to some kind of primal self, half-child, half-animal.
Instinctive and Spontaneous.
Food intact was sporadic. There's no scale here, so I can't keep thinking about it.
We don't go a day without fighting, usually because of something I've instigated. Then I abuse him with affection. Tiring really.
He gets sick of me doing the things I do though. Trying to hang myself with twine. Stealing his roommate's Venus razor blade refill to get my aggression out (he sighs, and quietly takes out the first aid kit almost as ritualistically as my previous act). I whine and plead to dye my hair all weekend.
"Please, will you pay for me to get a haircut?"
I lock myself in the bathroom and begin to snip and chunk and chip away. Then I dye my hair the most vibrant unnatural purple I could get my hands on. TR just sighs.
I swallowed a dime. There were threats of taking me to the hospital to see what's done to idiot non-children who do things like that. I told him I'd get rid of it, and purged and purged until everything from that day was gone. Except the wretched piece of metal.
You all know, I don't purge. I'm bad at it. It makes me feel dirty. I can't get the smell off myself.
I lied and told him that I rid myself of the dime. Inside, I'm thinking about how much a dime weighs.
I think if I were left to my own devices with TR, I would drink pressed apple juice and red vines forever. He would eat burritos, weird asian wraps with peanut sauce, and sometimes pizza.
I have to go back into the welcoming hateful arms of Southern California unexpectedly tonight. My Visa application was rejected for some stupid insignificant reason. But reason enough to keep me out of the UK unless I start getting less manic with TR and channel that energy into making some calls and bothering some people.
Goal: No tears & >1000cals (I know it's alot, but I haven't been counting lately)
Monday, September 7, 2009
"I can't help it. I was born a miscarriage. I had so many insults I died. I was born dead. I can't help it. I'm tired. I'm give out trying. You got chances. I had so many insults I was born dead. You got it easy. I was born dead an' life was hard. I'm tired. I'm tired out talking standing up. I been dead fifty-five years."
The big Nurse got him clear across the room, right through his greens. She jumped back without getting the needle pulled out after the shot and it hung there from his pants like a little tail of glass and steel, old Pete slumping farther and farther forward, not from the shot but from the effort, the last couple of minutes had worn him out finally and completely, once and for all--you look at him and tell he was finished.
He did come to life for maybe a minute to try and tell us something. Something none of us cared to listen to or try to understand, and the effort had drained him dry. That shot in the hip was as wasted as if she'd squirted it in a dead man--no heart to pump it, no vein to carry it up to his head, no brain up there for it to mortify with its poison. She'd just as well shot it in a dried-out cadaver.
Even though I was only 11 when I read this for my 7th grade advanced class, I empathized with Mr. Bancini. I was tired too.
“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don't want any more vicissitudes, I don't want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.”
I tried to hang myself last night. You all know me, so you know I don't want any "I hope you're ok" kind of wonderful sympathy comments (which I appreciate and love to know someone cares)... I like to be a tall ship in the face of a storm, and the battered captain with a slapshod ship barely docking at the trips end.
Why did I do it? I suppose when it all boils down it was merely that I had the opportunity and the means. All my fantasies had finally provided me with an option with something that was reasonable. I wish I could have recorded what went on in my head, as there was some thinking prior to the final decision (of course by then I was a bit stuck so I couldn't move much)...
Something of note, that happened the last time such an event occurred is I meticulously cleaned. I am staying with TR and he had left to do errands. I lovingly cleaned and organized his room. Sadly at first, and then with purpose. This same ritual would spark memory in me from 3 years ago when an ambulance arrived at my apartment, and though I was laying on my floor, as the men lifted me onto a gurney, the younger one couldn't help but say "My, you have such a nice little space here, dontcha?"
The rope broke. I'm not sorry. On either side. I just wanted you all to know, because I don't want anyone else except TR who has to see the physical proof.
Rude Comment of the Day
Friend and I are looking through old facebook pictures...
*Particularly old and icky one where my arms are squished together*
Me: "EW! I hate that picture, look how chubby may arms look. It's terrible."
Him: "Um, you look actually healthy in that photograph."
This is why I can't wear mini-Twiggy-like dresses to see people (despite TR's like for them). It freaks people out and they start talking about my shoulder blades and wrists.
Baggy baggy baggy. Cover up!!
No sad comments dearies, unless you need to tell me something :) All my love! I'm still working on getting caught up. Be patient, don't abandon me yet!!! I promise to send you written support ASAP!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
25 Things you never needed to know about me (note how many are food related):
1. The kitchen in my apartment is smaller than my bathroom. But the bathroom is not much bigger. But I have two walk-in closets.
2. I had a panic attack while watching “The Notebook.” I played it off later as an asthma attack.
3. It doesn’t matter how gourmet the food is, I don’t mix savory and sweet. It’s disgusting.
4. I know it’s terrible, but I didn't put away my Christmas decorations until April. I’ll be one of those people…or next year, I just won’t put up any.
5. I have multiple clocks in every room and I can see 5 of them from my bed. Some of them aren’t even set to the same time.
6. When I was a kid, we adopted a pair of baby chicks from church (you know the kind they use for the Easter sermon as props and then conveniently need to home). I liked to keep mine in my Playskool dollhouse. We kept them until we found out that “Hennie” was a boy and started crowing. My older sister knew a couple who used eggs to feed the gay homeless so we would visit them a couple times over the next few months until we adjusted to the idea of their higher calling. And we got cats.
7. I always wanted to ride in an ambulance until I did. I don’t want to anymore, lol.
8. My mind is like a television and someone is sitting on the remote control. So I feel like I’m always… thinking. This gets annoying when I try to sleep, doing homework, during yoga, having a conversation, in the shower, while reading, and during the one massage I had (“try to clear your head…” “…Um that’s not going to happen…”).
9. I have 7 tattoos.
10. When I was very young, I got over the idea that dying and death was something to be afraid of. What still freaks me out is the concept of “eternity.”
11. I have a fear that I’m really mediocre at all the things I love to do and want to be.
12. Corollary to no.11: I’m anxious about a lot of things.
13. I can play a mean revolutionary war snare drum. I can handle my own at concert violin. I wouldn't brag about my skills on the banjo, however.
14. Unlike most people I know, I really don’t care much for Abraham Lincoln. Unlike most people I know, I hang out at his Shrine in my town.
15. I have no self-discipline and can’t keep up routines. I start them and stop them like pre-teens start and stop diaries or people think this year they’ll actually remember their New Year’s resolution.
16. I would give up a lot of comforts before I would give up even mundane foods (you can’t take away buttered rolls from me). Forget great sex versus gourmet food. I would choose tomato soup and cheddar cheese over almost anything.
17. Great side burns are the Victorian gift to women.
18. My good days and bad days can be ranked on a number of scales depending on the day: how thin I feel (this is now measured w/ Wii Fit), how much alone time I got in the apartment (never much), how much work I got done before I got fed up and started watching TV, how many mean people I ran into, how many songs I sang aloud and how many I felt I sang well (I’m very critical), how many curse words eloquently fit into my sentences during the day, how much teeth grinding I did… etc.
19. Sometimes I randomly want to write on someone’s wall from high school or middle school or preschool, not even to reconnect, just because. I usually never actually go through with it.
20. I never wear jewelry. Not because I don’t want to. Just because I’m super lazy. Or I lose it!
21. I over spice my food at home. Example. When I make top ramen, I put pepper and Tabasco and garlic in it.
22. Another cooking thing. My Southern mother has a gift for turning even healthy staples into killers. She rolls tofu in flour and garlic seasoning and fries it. It tastes amazing. Even my vegetarian friend liked it. She will serve this to you with deviled eggs and black bottom pie if you let her. Where are the vegetables? LOL We used to eat salt/peppered broccoli with mayonnaise dolloped on top. I didn’t know it came any other way until I came to college.
23. I have 2 rocking chairs in my apartment (purchased by me) and they are awesome despite what TR may think.
24. I want to see an autopsy.
25. I don’t like writing ebay feedback because I don’t feel clever or like I’m saying anything substantial, even though everyone else just writes, “super fast payment A+++++++++” on mine. WTF does that mean?? This isn’t school. Stupid. Nice trying to use up all your characters though… dumbass.
Goal: No suicidal thoughts
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Goal: 24 hours w/o the scale
I was talking to my mother about my dear friend who is both mentally ill and fighting for her life with a deadly physical disease. The world is blurred for me between my girls I see on the pages of the internet and the people I interact with on a daily basis. My readers usually concern me more.
Paula D. : "I would rather have your personality disorder than some sort of tumor or leukemia wouldn't you? I mean, you can still enjoy playing with your dog and not worry about dying. It's not hard for you to get up every day, like it is for people who have chemotherapy."
Me: "*Possibly being overdramatic* .... I guess you're right... *continues to pet dog*"
Paula D.: "Do you disagree with me?"
Me: "Yes. I just don't think you understand what it feels like to be me."
Paula D. "Well, I think you are very blessed to be where you are. You have been given opportunities and you are going abroad in a month."
Me: "I know."
Paula D.: "Can we go work on packing your dishes in boxes now?"
I am going to visit TR on Thursday in San Francisco. Recently, I've developed a fear of the subway. I'm afraid if I'm in the station unaccompanied, I might jump off the platform.
I wish I had cancer, because you can't tell people these things. Even if you try, you open your mouth and words don't come out. Believe me, it's happened before.
If you do manage them and you're in the wrong crowd, you'll get locked up. Believe me it's happened before.
It's too hard get out of bed every day. The cycle begins. I'm empty, philosophical, existentialist. Depression manifests itself as a deep ache in my chest. Anxiety attacks are like too many cups of coffee... almost convincing myself that I really might have the willpower to scuttle up the wall. Mania. I am beautiful, thin, better than everyone. Sharp and short, but with a smile or a wink. I will flirt a little too much.
And then I will crack. Over the edge. If I feel safe, I will throw the first thing I think might break. I will scream. I will scream. If I'm not safe, I will find my tools and lock myself away and torture myself until I feel in control again. Shaky.
I'm sitting in the car. My mind is thinking about a lot of things. I can't turn them off. I know I won't get any peace until my head finally hits the pillow later that night. My friend glances over at me, "Savory? Savory! What are you doing? Your eyes are glazed over."
Oh sorry. I was just zoning out.
A day in my life. Happiness is scattered in there too. Bits of confetti. Or shredded receipts.
I don't want to have cancer. I just want to escape.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Goal: Complete everything on the list I've made without any breakdowns.
Mini Goal: Count how many times I get the urge to get on the scale, but don't do it.
Does anyone else get freaked out about being touched sometimes? It's not like I shirk away from people or my boyfriend has to stay 3 feet away from me, but sometimes I have these moods where someone might reach over to grab their purse....
I'm sure she's going to pat my arm and I jerk away. Sometimes, it feels so sensitive it hurts. Like a sunburn.
The other day, someone asked me about why I tattoo. Does it have to do with SI? Am I a masochist? I don't really have much insight into myself, though I suppose I understand the movement and positioning of my gears better than most people... so I stumble around trying to answer. It's complicated. We're all very complicated, like a finely wound timepiece.
But I think that like most of us engaging in self-destructive behavior whether it be si, bp, ana, aggression, or sleeping the days away... we're coping. Partially (I'm not going to be like your therapists and try to explain away your behaviors in one single swoop), we like to be stronger, and in control of our own pain, make ourselves losers before any teacher can fail us, and push someone away before he or she could ever decide to leave.
I like my tattoos because their beautiful. And like with most things in life, I think if it doesn't hurt, it's not worth doing. I don't want help moving those boxes, I don't want to diet the easy way, I don't want to sit in couples therapy and try to work things out with a stranger. I want to scream at the top of my lungs and break things in the aisles at Target because everything is too orderly and fake.
I want control. And I want everyone in the whole world to know that you can't hurt me. I already hurt myself. Don't feel sorry for me. Because I don't.