Me to my mother (PD): "So what do you think about Paula Deen getting hit in the face with a frozen ham?"
My mother (PD): *In her best Southern drawl* "Oh at her age? That's just awful!"
Me: "What does age have to do with it?"
PD: "Hun, your face just doesn't hold up as well... If she were 30 it'd be a different story."
Then she proceeded to talk about how the dog must be starving and the plan to buy him hamburger tomorrow because she could see his ribs. Hunger strike and all that.
I do wonder if the rest of America came to the immediate conclusion that I came before I got all the facts (what? it was an accident?? oh, not as interesting!):
Was the Paula Deen "Ham Throwing" incident to Food as the George W. Bush "Shoe Throwing" incident was to Politics?
You might not get my subtle standardized testing rhetoric. I think the world is similarly weary of seeing poor Paula shove her hand in BBQ sauce like it's........ jesus, I can't even find anything to compare that to... You shouldn't dip your whole hand in a bowl of *anything* then proceed to lick it off your fingers. "More butter" and phrases of the like aren't cheeky anymore. We're getting a little grossed out.
The Food Network has made me realize something after so many years of being on TV. We have fucking dedicated an entire NETWORK OF TELEVISION to something that we're only supposed to be doing to keep us alive.
I think the world is sick of Paula and Jamie (shit, I am sick of Jamie, and I just learned who the hell he was 2 months ago) and even Top Chef (sorry Padma). Please tell Gordon Ramsey, he's not scary except for what all that yelling has done for his face.
Seriously... you all have ruined food. Bush has ruined the world, and you all have ruined cuisine.
Hope your nose isn't broken Paula. You're a tough cookie (damn it!).
Monday, November 30, 2009
Me to my mother (PD): "So what do you think about Paula Deen getting hit in the face with a frozen ham?"
... sitting across the aisle from me every Friday in lecture.
I don't know if you are intentionally choosing to sit there--juxtaposing yourself to me, if we are magnetically attracted to one another, or if we keep magically finding ourselves sitting adjacent to each other each week.
But it fucking pisses me off. Stop doing it.
I know you are thinner than me. And if I'm looking at you, I know you are looking at me. You can't be thinner than me and doing it by some force of nature. You are starving yourself. By putting yourself in my line of sight, and especially draping yourself week after week in stripes and baggy clothes, you thrust your thinness in my face. Reminding me that I've failed a little bit.
You have the perfect jawbone and I know I stare at you sometimes. It makes me wonder looking over at you, intently jotting down notes... did I ever look like that? I pinch my index finger and my thumb around my upper arm to mentally gauge the size difference.
Was someone ever looking at me like that, when I was at my smallest? Sitting, staring, spitefully wishing to trade places?
And yet, I know I look a bit better now that I've put on some weight. Does my Striped Friend with whom I have a Silent Shared Secret like the way she looks? This achievement in svelte.
Or do we sit adjacent because she longs something from me too...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
This offends me on several levels.
1. I think tries to compare itself erroneously to anorexia nervosa which actually kills people.
2. What's next? Cakeorexia?
3. This is something that EVERYONE does. Eating disordered or not.
For those of you that don't know what this is, the media will try and make this sound really complicated, but basically it's saving calories so you can drink more. And if cakorexia does exist (which I argue it does), we already do this. Save calories to make room for cake.
I have a severe form of drunkorexia which I've come to realize deeply concerns my fellow cohort in the pub. While everyone is ordering crisps and cider and beer, I come upstairs with my drink of choice. A wise one in my opinion.
A shot of vodka and a glass of water.
Efficiency in its highest form. Saving you on money, calories, and time spent getting drunk (which is the only reason to drink in the first place... to get buzzed. Don't argue with me about taste, drink god-damned grape juice if you want something that tastes good, alcohol is juice that's sat out too long).
Perhaps I'm jaded because I've gone for a week consuming water alone and not died so when people tell me things are dangerous, I tut tut and have decided that there are worse things I can do.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Can I just say I hate my roommates?
Like every single one of them.
(P.S. I'm going to try something I call leaving out obscenities... some people think it cheapens things! We'll see.)
I have a love hate relationship with the location of my room on the cell block that is my flat. I'm 2 doors down from the kitchen. Bad. BUT, I can look through my peephole and see if the light is on in said kitchen.
Obviously I like to sneak in there when no one else is around because I don't want anyone to see what I'm consuming and I hate making stupid small talk with them.
But being so close to the kitchen, I'm always smelling their shitty food. Being eating disordered, I think I have a pretty damn good idea what good food is. People can lie all they want, fast food tastes absolutely delicious if you know what to get. Turn your nose up if you want, but everyone who secretly says its gross and munches on edamame like it's chocolate can just go stuff themselves into a rabbit cage. So I think I'm a pretty good judge of gastronomy (and I've had 5 star cuisine that was to die for and really amazing hole in the wall stuff).
Let's begin the rant though.
It's never ever ok to leave your leftovers overnight in the pot on the stove for 36 hours. It didn't even look good to begin with and now it smells like rotting. If you are going to let your dish soak, please rinse it first. Close the trash can. These things waft into my room and I can't do anything to stop it except open the window and smell cigarette smoke which seems like the better option of the two.
I have never met anyone who doesn't know how to properly store food. If you want to freeze your bread, why are you going to leave the bag ripped open? And for that matter, why are you going to put your ripped open bag of frozen bread and crumbs in the freezer bin that has been MINE the whole term? The fact that I haven't used it in 3 weeks doesn't mean I've moved out. I should still get 1 fridge rack and 1 freezer bin (by the way, I've moved your disgusting tupperware off my shelf from my clementine oranges before you could infect them with whatever was inside).
It is NEVER ever ok to put something in the fridge without a lid. And I mean things like yogurt. Like "Oh I didn't finish this, I'm just going to stick it in here." And yogurt is being kind. I really mean curry and chinese take out (that most certainly once had a lid). Things that permeate through the fridge and my food absorbs the smells. Making me have to change what I buy to only things that have an inch of plastic encasing them or things that never ever have to enter the horrible refrigerator in the first place.
When you are leaving the kitchen, are you so angry with what you have just cooked and eaten that you feel the need to slam the door? Because even when I try I can't figure out how to slam that stupid thing. I just don't know how the six of you do it. Slam the door and walk by my room in what sounds like steel-toed Doc Martin shoes, mumbling something loudly when I KNOW there isn't anyone in the hallway talking to you.
Then you have the nerve to ask me why I'm never in the kitchen! Because you all came from families and countries where apparently the sacred place of the kitchen is your toilet. I bet your bathroom is cleaner than our kitchen is.
Sometimes I want to do my dishes in my bathroom sink because you all disgust me so much.
So I thoroughly blame you, neighbors whose names I for the most part do not remember so I don't even have to make up pseudonyms, for the fluctuations in my weight. I either have to eat gross over-processed food (not the same as fast food... the later actually expires where as "Twinkies" are good to stockpile if you are worried about a nuclear attack) which causes a spike on the scale, or I drink squash to keep myself away from that horrible war torn country that is my kitchen. Squash diluted with large amounts of water and the occasional cheese sandwich is a surprisingly affective weight loss regime. That and a horrible horrible cluster of roommates with bad manners and poor cleaning habits.
fuck fuck fuck. OK I had to get that out.
Sometimes I feel like I'm shouting at the wind. Typing away and no one is really reading except the echoes wooshed and swirled back at me--tossing around my hair and kissing my chapped nose--reminding me that there are bigger forces than myself out there.
Oh, Sapling outside my window
You have lost most your leaves and I imagine you are quite cold
For you, I enviously note when I walk by, are so gracefully thin
And if I am shivering... you must be frozen
Yet in the breezes and harshness of the elements
You sway gently and stand proud
Slight and lithe and beautiful
If I could, I would only ever look like you
Someday, I hope to find shelter under your sparse branches
You will hide and inspire me with your striking foliage
But in order to do so, we should both make a pact:
You must grow a bit,
And I must dwindle.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
There's just something about me that screams "rebel." If I show you the me at my messiest self... I must clean up my room the next day and show you proof that I can live in something other than complete squalor.
Actually, there's method to my madness. If you look by the computer, you can see a large stack of books. Those are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.... 17 books I just got between today and yesterday that I absolutely cannot bear to display and use (for my end of term essays) without knowing that they aren't going to get lost in my room.
No, that's not true. I'm really one of those people who has to like clean everything before she gets down to the dirty deed of doing work. There's something oddly gratifying about housework. Maybe that's why I let my room get so filthy before I clean it all up?
Maybe I should clue you all in on what I'm actually going to be doing one of my term papers on? No, I have something else I want to talk about today. I'll talk about the term paper another time. Remind me about the term paper though... it actually is important!
I went into the A&E (ER for you Yankies HAR HAR) after getting sexually assaulted and I was pretty shaken up. Like I was pulling out my own hair, shaken up (which is pretty shitty now that I look back on it, because my hair is considerably less asymmetrical now that I take a good look... which was the look I had going for me). Had a long drawn out conversation with this ridiculous "crisis team" [seriously, ever single fucking day I learn that the UK system and the US system of health care are like god damn apples and oranges mind-fucking-blowing] and the lead guy was this really intense Jamaican man. Now I don't feel bad for singling him out as Jamaican because he was one of those guys who was obviously super proud of being a Jamacian export. He had no less than 3 pieces of jewelry (ring, bracelet, necklace) with a Jamaican flag, so I found this humorous.
What was the point? Oh yes. So during this long-drawn out conversation that numerous times led to "What do you want us to do for you?" At which point I always want to scream "FUCKING FIX ME OR JUST KILL ME NOW!" There was one point where I'm-refraining-from-going-to-every-cultural-stereotype-I-can-think-of-to-call-this-guy-but-it's-hard-not-to-go-there! is like "Oh I don't know that you really need the Crisis Team right now, since you're high functioning."
I just told you that I can't take the Underground because I'm afraid I'll step in front of the train but I mostly refrain myself because I don't want other people to see that and be scarred and as fucked up as I am. And there's a pile of my hair... A PILE... of my hair on the floor.
So later they offer to drive me home since pretty much that's all they can offer to do other than tell me to come back to A&E if I want to kill myself (great help, kthnkxbi) and the woman who is like the Robin to the Jamaican Batman turns to me and says "So how long have you been here and how long are you staying?"
"Oh.... um, I got here end of September and I'll be here about a year."
*Dead Silence and then...* "Oh no hun. You've only been here two months and you're already having so many problems! You poor thing!"
UH YEAH! High functioning my ass.
But then it made me think. I've never really attributed that term to myself. High/low functioning has been something that people like my autistic cousin get labeled with because there's all these complicated factors and usually other people involved. Who will look after them when their parents die? Can they take care of themselves? Who will support them? Can they hold down a job? Legal issues legal issues jargon jargon blah blah boring I'm bored.
That doesn't really seem like me. But I guess sometimes it seems like things that affect me sometimes counter one another. I will spend all of my semester in bed, but blow me down if I will allow myself to drop out of school. That would mean failure (for me)... that is unacceptable. I will sleep in until that last minute possible and then I will wear myself raw to achieve what I have to, to get it done. BUT, I don't live in a vacuum, my success largely relies on other people. BUT, I am also aware that some of my biggest faults are also aspects to my greatest strengths. SO am I high functioning?
Are we even talking about the right spectrum, or is there some other range or category that better applies?
In case you wonder: the starkness of the room is not my choice, the management has very strong opinions about sticking things to the painted surfaces and I rebelled but for some reason my tape didn't even stick... so God was telling me it wasn't worth the fine I suppose. So I guess I'm going for a bland mashed potatoes look until the end of Spring!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
My room is turning into an assemblage of trash. It's horrible. Should I list off some of the things I can see from the vantage point of the writing spot on my bed?
On The Night Stand
Guava Juice Box
2 straw wrappers (insinuating there was once another juice box... probably around here somewhere)
The corner of a bag of Haribo Cola Fizzys under a book (I'd tell you the book, but it'd give my alias away dead on! Though I'm sure my face has done that time after time *wink*)
Bag of Haribo Sour Cherries
Hubba Bubba chewing gum package... cool cola flavor (on that note, I love cola flavored things, but I hate cola the drink)
Bottle of spilled nail polish (I'm including this because it very obviously needs to be cleaned up but hasn't been)
In My Chair
Bottle of laundry detergent
Wacom bamboo tablet (I still haven't opened it!!! I can't open new fancy things I buy until my room is clean... it's a rule I generally stick to)
On My Computer Desk
Absense of Computer (It's been here on my bed for ages... I've been sleeping with it too, since there's no room on said nightstand)
2 takeaway boxes
Dr. Pepper (It's new unlike everything else, I'm planning on using it for breakfast tomorrow since I've just spent today sleeping all day and I'll likely not sleep at all tonight and thus need the caffeine)
Bottle of "Brut Spumante" (I opened it, spilled it everywhere, then realized I hate champagne and sparkling wine... bought it when I was drunk and stumbled into Waitrose. Stupid "Scrumpy Jack and its suprisingly high alcohol content!)
Old Jamaica Ginger Beer (gross)
Reese's Peanut Butter cup (present from the States, thank you Holly! If she's reading this, she's probably so grossed out becuase it's definitely from Halloween)
Toffee Crisp (omg new favorite candy bar)
Sainsbury bag full of what I presume to be a lot of trash
coffee mug and spoon (from lunch... my bowl was dirty so I had to use the coffee mug, sad I know. Even sadder that I ate lunch!)
Birthday card from a long time ago
perfume that belongs not there
On The Floor
Piles and Piles of clothes and shoes
No less than 4 bags of trash (Oh I can see the other juice box!)
Ewww a fruit fly just flew by... that must mean there's a fruit peel somewhere in here
A care package for a friend (I bought a bunch of Cadbury bars for said friend, but I haven't mailed the package for two reasons 1) I've run out of money 2) While waiting to get more money I ate the Cadbury..... oops)
Books and books and books
I like to think that when my room is organized my life is better organized (<-- a made bed makes all the difference!). When I can pull things together and things are tidy, and I've showered and put on make up, and gotten out of the house, I think my outlook on life is generally a little bit better. You can see that clearly I need to clean my room. It's really not as gross as it sounds, but it's kind of gross. Kind of a lot. I just started typing something else, but I'm saving it for tomorrow. It's heavy ;) Loving you all to pieces. Tiny pieces that are scattered about my disgusting room.
EDIT: You can all thank What If Summer... because now I feel compelled to describe the bathroom :)
Stack of newspapers and magazines the oldest dating to October 15 (they like force them on me on my walk home and I don't know what to do with them!)
An orchid that I impulsively bought that never gets watered except by hairspray but somehow is doing quite well
The dreaded scale (trademark Boots)
A "Habitat" paper bag that serves as my trashcan
make up that's on the sink and the floor and in a galloon size ziplock bag (again on the floor)
See that wasn't SO bad. I'm not like living in complete filth.
P.S: I lost a follower during the night and I wonder if they decided I was too gross to justify reading :)
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
You damn well better have. I am glad to report that in my long absence, I was not disappointing you. Well, I was disappointing you in the sense that I binged a lot, gained some weight, felt shitty, moped, and bought a scaled, and freaked out. Even wrote a post about said scale and never got around to publishing it.
When I look at "Borderline Personality Disorder" traits, I like to think that I don't do all the reckless, dangerous behavior that's carefully listed in a bit of a "You're up shit creek if you're ever unfortunate enough to have this," kind of way. For better or worse, I can now say I've crossed a line.
"The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well."I'm having money problems. Like, I'm really not sure how I'm going to stretch out about ₤100 pounds over the next month when it seems like I spend about 20 every time I turn around. Must figure out what this "overdraft" business is all about. Thus, I'm getting increasingly desperate for cash. I started doing research for a paper I was going to entitle: "Sex, Money, Beauty, and Power: Gold Diggers or Material Girls." This lead me to various places, including a very interesting little blogger community, not too different from ours. Except they are filled with 20somethings that call themselves "sugar babies" not to be confused with "sugar gliders" (google search likes to bring up the later when you search for the former!).
My research and reading these blogger accounts started making me long for Alexander McQueen dresses and Jimmy Choo heels... and more importantly, the idea of a ₤5000 month allowance. I joined a website promising me the allure of rich men who wanted to spoil me just for the joy of having me as brilliant conversation and not-too-shabby-looking arm candy. I easily lined up dates with men that you could google and know who they are. Men whose clothes are in your closets and are CFOs at banks you shop in. Cocktails at Harvey Nichols. The best Dim Sum in London. Promises to holiday in the Alps. Too good to be true, right? It was. I realized that the more and more I delved into this, that all the finger wagging from the media was right. It was softcore prostitution, and I didn't even notice until I was very nearly raped. Raped in a multi-millionare's mansion by Primrose Hill.
It was all very well to say "Drink me," but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. "No, I'll look first," she said, "and see whether it's marked 'poison' or not"; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.Anyway, after getting past the initial shock of it all, I realize that my perspective on it all has completely changed. Yes, I'm still compulsively shopping... but I'm happy to be in my economic situation. You have no idea how disgusting and sadsack these men are despite being surrounded by fame and wealth. This is probably the only thing that makes me feel better about being a high-class hooker. That and the fact that all my flaws, everything I worry about, how ugly I feel all the time, seemed--for maybe the first time--a little more than a little excessive. I really am pretty. And every single girl in this community who has ever been brave enough to show us a glimpse of her in the real world astounds me. It's like I expect us to all be the sorrowful little homely things, but everyone is so beautiful and we are wasting our lives, tearing away at our souls.
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.'
I also started cutting again. People accept the stupidest rationalizations for these things. Used a razor again and my side from the top of my low-rise-ultimate-skinny-jean-line (thanks Lulu) to the bottom of my bra-line there's these hideous slashes, with the prominent ones almost making this kind of macabre artistic corseting pattern.
Someone got a glimpse when I was taking off my sweatshirt and I made a quick cover up, "OH jesus. I was helping a friend in the art school a few weeks ago with a project he was doing and I lost control of the hand saw... so yeah." Questions Questions. UM. Yeah, that's not how that would look. And who loses control of a hand saw and slices up their side? People are dumb. It's like the time that I "caught my calf on the stray metal of a chain link fence..." I guess you have to be like oddly specific and people just buy the story.
"Curiouser and curiouser" thought Alice.
Well my dears, I give you my leave. It's time to catch up on readings. If you're curious, I'm satisfied with my weight for now and am focusing on maintaining and toning my stomach. I love you all dearly.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thanks for coming out to vote everyone! And I blush at the compliments about my arms... you aren't seeing them when they're squished up against my sides though, different story ;)
So I realized this morning I can wear the wig when I'm having a HORRIBLE hair day. I can't wear a hat to work, and sometimes my hair is just a hot mess... so that's what happened this morning. If anyone asks, I've already got a sad "Oh, I had skin cancer in high school so I still have the wig and I wear it sometimes when I feel funky" story. No one can think bad things about someone who had cancer. Though in reality, I just bought the wig... but I did actually have melanoma in high school (I had to wear this ridiculous bucket hat for like 2 months because hats were against "dress code"... so in hind sight, I really should have gone for a wig back then). So it's only a half lie.
Tonight I've gotta get caught up with blogs because I'm a terrible person, so I'm going to cut this off now. The comic may or may not happen this week... I kind of want to blow the money in my bank account and get a Wacom Tablet. My national insurance number needs to come soon so I can get paid. Eek!
Loving you, each and every one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Kay. So, I am sick of my hair.
You, my fine readers need to tell me which looks better... I trust your opinion. And don't say "neither" because there's nothing I can damn well do about that.
My hair is short and I hate it now. But I don't want to get extensions because they're expensive and they can f-up your real hair....
SO I'm super creepy and got a wig and I can just tell everyone I got extensions. But I can't tell if it looks good. Need ya'lls opinion.
My short hair. Option 1. I can't take pictures without making ugly faces.
Option 2 and ugly face no.2 You would think I can't smile AND look disgusted, but I can. And do. It's a gift my friends.
And for your viewing pleasure. Remember that post when I showed everyone how my mother LITERALLY looks like Paula Deen? Well I stumbled upon this gem and thought you all would appreciate it. My mom PD at age 16.
You can't tell because she's scrunching up her chin, but she weighs like 90 pounds here. Jealous. But now she has heart problems and osteoporosis. Oops.
Guess which one? Uh, the ED unit. Damn bastard calculating my BMI and deciding that if I just eat 3 meals a day all my other problems will go away. Cha, ya right. So now I'm still off ALL my meds and he won't refill my ritalin because he thinks I can't concentrate in class because I'm fucking hungry. Idiot, I can't concentrate on class becuase I have ADHD and I usually effing do work to get my mind off being hungry. Ass.
See what I said about the angry? haha.
Friday, November 6, 2009
There's a bunch of stuff I could blog about. Oh good good stuff.... but because I've been sick (unintentionally) in 3 different public bathrooms around Bloomsbury and Islington (faking my way to use of one the toilets by frantically lying that I needed to have my blood drawn. Yeah good stuff)...
Instead I'm going to nurse whatever the hell is ailing me (cider hangover, swine flu, or food poisoning) and try to find something that doesn't look revolting to take my meds with. People. No matter how thin you want to be, don't fucking take meds on an empty empty empty vomit-y stomach. Especially pain killers. Such a sad irony.
But I have been thinking about you all, and composed several blog posts in my head. Most of which I don't remember.
So starting next week, I will be delivering a weak dose of humor poorly sketched comics with bad intentions. The comics, not me.
I'm providing you with a rough sketch of our protagonist to get you thinking, as well as some fashion advice from said character.
LOL how lazy am I? Scanning advice... don't use Apple's photobooth because you'll just decide one day "Whatever, it's good enough for everything." Then you have no idea where the library scanners are because you're a slob.
Again, pardon the quality of the drawing and the sad upload (yes I'm aware of the backward writing, surprise I don't care). Promise that future installations will actually be worth you looking at. Perhaps, if you still don't like it, then fuck off and go eat something.
Our main character. Maxine. Her little devil friend, whispering terrible things to her, Eni. Here's some praise they've already receieved!
"....like them or loathe them, you'd be mad not to loathe them!" --Steven Fry (A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Estate Agents)
I'll let the comic introduce itself next week, but hopefully this will be something a bit different to stare at once a week, and force me to keep my sketchbook on hand.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd fashion porn for funzies.