A Barbie World

Some people might call me obsessive. TR specifically things I have "phases of fads" ...

Case in point. Two days ago, I was determined about going to Burning Man next year, but I only care now because I've reminded myself. Another example. I started carrying around my old sketch book and doodling. When it falls out of my bag onto my floor, I'll forget about how meticulously I was documenting the world and not draw a single absurd figure for the next few months.

Last week when I was applying for jobs, I got it into my head that I should become an exotic dancer. After much research, walking by my local Spearmint Rhino, and "How to Give A Proper Lapdance" queries later I decided this probably wasn't going to happen. Actually, I think it was the horrible "audition" dream I had during the weekend that turned me off from the whole thing, but that aside.

Oh my stripper name by the way? Mallory Moxie. Don't steal it if you become a successful dancer (unless you want to help me with some personal funds).

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But what did this whole lesson in futility teach me? Yes. Yes, I'm finally thin enough to strut around on stage and know that despite how fat I think I am, measurements don't lie. And men like tiny and outwardly confident.

It doesn't matter though. Because I can morph and slenderize my formerly pear-shaped self to a more suitable celery me, but that's not what men want either.

Man, in all his urge to conquer nature, wants something that none of us can achieve no matter how much we starve or run or fight. And guess what? I want it too. And you all probably do as well.

I want to be tall(er), and keep my 24" waist but push the weight from my 1400g brain matter into my boobs and butt. I want perky and round and tight and firm.

I want to be a Barbie Doll. Unless I get a disposable income and some serious time to myself, that is not going to happen.

This revelation has made me wonder to myself, "What has been the point?" Yes, part of it has always been about pushing my limits, destroying myself, and painting an outward image of my inner fucked-up self... but I never wanted to be ugly. If I wanted to look like a monster, I would have just started slashing my face instead of meticulously finding new spots to mutilate.

If I wanted to look bad, there were far easier ways to do it.

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I've rid myself of both the good and the bad fat, knowing that some omnipotent ruler in the sky is laughing at the sad paradox of it all while he blows up balloon planets and releases them into other galaxies. I can't be a sex symbol, I can't be my own definition of beautiful.

What do I do now? This, ladies and gentlemen, has been my conundrum. Unfortunately, I don't have an answer. But in the event that I decide to go in a different direction, a "healthier" direction, I clued in my GP. And weighed myself.

Eight stone. It's so much harsher over here.

I have to get some bloodwork and things done so she can see what kind of state I'm in, but I haven't decided if I want to go along with the referral to the ED Unit (especially because I don't know what that even means in this country)... I don't know.

It's all very confusing. Someone just pay for me to get implants and this whole mess can go away. hah, kind of.