Miss Me Yet?

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.

Regards, Savory