Swizzle

Hah, last night I wrote a drunk post but was apparently too drunk to publish it!

You know the best way to feel completely horrible and ugly and fat?

Wet Look Leggings.

Buy them. Wear them. Never go out in them. When you want to eat cheese and fat and sugar, picture your ass and thighs in those damn leggings.


And if that doesn't work, walk around in them and listen to the swish sizzle sound of your legs as you walk. It's creepy and disgusting.

This has been a disordered tip brought to you by the mind of Savory Sweet.

End Transmission.

Just OK

I'm such a bitch.

When I was really scary thin, TR used to talk to me about it and I would quip back that I thought he was fat. He's never been fat. Sometimes he and I have been on the higher range of healthy, with lots of squish but never fat.

But for some reason, stupid shallow me sometimes makes remarks about TR losing weight or working out. I know it's judgmental and mean. But in my mind, I judge everyone else pretty harshly and then I judge myself ten times as tough.

I guess that's how I got to a completely dangerous BMI... Obviously I need to rethink what kind of lens through which I want to view the world.

It would just be nice to let go of that ideal that if you try hard enough you can make everything perfect. If I work at it, I can be rich and beautiful and successful and famous. Is it weird that I didn't say "Happy" ? That didn't even cross my mind as I was thinking about my perfection list.

---

The other day I was super bored and taking personality quizzes. One question was about some kind of genie in a bottle and what would I wish for:

1. $100,000,000 dollars
2. Fix the Environment
3. World Peace
4. To Be Completely Healthy For the Rest of My Life

As much as I know I would be a different person, I thought about how brilliant my life would be if I was just healthy. Physically and mentally. No worries about "pre-existing conditions" or what time to take my medication.... or the fact that if I miss my meds for one weekend so I can sleep in, I completely freak out on Monday. It would be nice to wake up and worry about something else. But not worry more than the average person does.

I wonder if being healthy equates to being average? Things aren't terrible or particularly wonderful. They just are, and that's ok. Doesn't that just make me sound so egotistical? I'm so above the world because my emotions swing like a pendulum and I'm as unpredictable as the weather. Routines are beneath me. I am closer to perfection because I am flawed.

Neither seems right. But what is right? And why do we care so much?

Why can't we just settle for things being just the way they are? Nothing more, nothing less.

Taste and Toilet

UGH. This has been a horrible weekend.

It all started with getting drunk. Doesn't it always?

Long story short, I got sick in my bathroom while still super drunk and knocked my little toilet freshener thingy into the bowl.... AND proceeded to forget about this until the next morning.

Wake up with a hoooorible hangover and realize I have completely blocked up my toilet. Oops. So because I live in the wonders of Graduate Student Housing, no one particularly cares and is of the mindset that "Well, someone will fix it on Monday..." FUCK YOU that's 3 days from now! I'll have the plague by then from the airborne bacteria (not really, but I kept the door closed just in case).

So stupid me has to call a plumber--not even thinking to do price comparisons--and this stereotypical filthy guy comes to fix it and puts the plunger in my shower after he's done with it. Needless to say there was much bleaching to be done and even so I didn't trust the shower for 2 days.

I'm not really sure what the moral of the story is here. Since I had basically alcohol-flushed my system, I was like "Well, I feel super dead.... AND kind of thin!" Out comes the scale. What do you know, but I've lost a ridiculous amount of weight! I can't say how much for sure because I have been avoiding the scale.

This was the only dim light shining on an otherwise horrible horrible weekend. When I get hungover, I turn into a mopey sicky sick needy person. And I feel said-sickness for at least a whole day. Then I hate the world for allowing me to drink in the first place. It's someone else's problem, definitely.

---

A weird thing about being here in the UK is that my taste has completely changed. It's kind of sad but good. My mother sent me red vines in the mail and at first they tasted SUPER spiced and herbal-y.... eventually I ate enough of the 1lb pack that I got the old taste again but still.

Then yesterday, I got strawberry Hagen-Daz and it seriously tasted like cheese. My mouth couldn't even manage to eat 1/4 of the pint. My comfort food is ruined.

So if you want to completely betray your senses, go into a foreign country for a few months. That ought to do it.

I swear I'm going to go shower right... now

I feel fat today. Fat and useless.

Been watching "Desperate Housewives" like it's nobody's business (anyone who is friends with me on Facebook will notice I was rockin' the "Bree" 'do at a recent party like it was 1956)... and I really don't feel encouraged to do anything else until my bandwidth on Megavideo needs an hour to cool down.

I need to get my act together today because I've got a meeting with an especially intimidating professor. He just loves big big words. Ridiculous lexicon. So that by itself makes my palms sweaty when I go in to see him. Plus, his hipster black plastic frames are so intrusive he just looks like a portly pair of glasses with a mustache and leather jacket. It's slightly too tight, which is endearing.

Whenever I see this guy, I just want to break down and tell him all my troubles. But I know that no academic, especially a middle-aged man, wants some girl weeping in the office. That's what school counselors are for yo! So I'll psych myself up to be like, "OK today I'm going to really open up and talk about the problems I've been having..." and as soon as I walk in I start blubbering incoherently and look plain stupid and unprepared.

And my television affinity doesn't help me much on the looking prepared part.

I wanna step on the scale. It won't be a pretty number but deep inside I feel like if I can just see something little, it will be a relief. One thing I'm doing right in my world. At the same time, I know--being the glutton for pain and tragedy--if I do get on the scale, it's going to be something I don't like, and I'll sabotage any hope of a good day.

Being functional sucks. There's no real good excuse for me to go batshit crazy, but I know (and if I let the cracks show through other people see it too) that I'm just not pulled together. I'm a lot of loose threads. Damaged goods. Then, when I finally motivate myself to get out of my crumb-filled, smelly, warm bed and take a shower that I really have no reason to logically feel this way. I can get out of bed. I can shower. I can smile. I can function.

I suppose it's why I do the things I do. Binging, drinking, cutting, shopping, watching copious amounts of internet television. These are the only times I feel free from the prison of my mind. It's nice to focus on something besides myself. The taste of food, the feeling of being tipsy, the excitement of a new purchase, the satisfaction of seeing blood.

The fantasy of voyeristically watching someone else's life for thirty minutes. Or an hour.

I wonder if the great people of the world are plagued with similar problems. Being too thoughtful. Stuck in one's head. Tormented artists had to get that way somehow, right? So absorbed in the hyperreality of one's own imagination that the world seems distant and blurry.

Is this why we push ourselves so hard? Do we have a similar mindset? Something brilliant lies dormant within, but we just don't know how to channel it? Or is it all just another manic thought too keep ourselves going every day? That we tell ourselves we are better. Martyrs. Being an average person who can't seem to handle the world, let alone a single day, seems so pathetic.

Today, however, I feel fat and useless.

The Grass is Always Greener

You know, it's not even about losing weight anymore.

I just really hate having to stop and eat. Or think about what I'm going to eat. Or have that stomach ache from over eating.

Mostly I hate spending money on food.

Life would just be so much easier if I didn't get cravings for things and could simply take a little nutrition pill and get on with my day.

---

I'm looking at water bottles right now. Mine smells from not washing it after using it for juice. Can't get another aluminum (by the way, Americans... we have been saying it "wrong" apparently. As strange as it sounds, it does actually make sense to say it "AL-U-MINI-yum!" like you say other things on the periodic table. Still, it sounds ridiculous to my ears) bottle because last one I had ended up getting rusty because I left a little puddle in the bottom for too long.

Really, I just need a dish washer. This would save countless wasted bottles.

Another recent occurrence is that I've gotten back on the meat train. I usually don't have a second thought about eating meat, so when I start to crave it obsessively, something inside me thinks I must be super protein deprived and anemic so I let it happen for a bit. Get it out of my system so I won't bruise as easily.

Anyway the reason I need the water bottle and I'm mentioning about the meat is I feel like if I can start carrying around tons of H2O and bring a packed lunch I'll be more temptation free.

I just really miss the days of eating frozen grapes for lunch.

---

Yesterday I went to get a refill on my Prozac. Haven't seen my GP in months since I had my own little supply going for awhile. She started doing the "ooh looks like you overdosed on paracetamol... would you like to talk about it?"

No. Not particularly. Jesus, this is when I start getting bitter and annoyed. I know where this conversation leads... "Well, do you have any thoughts of hurting yourself now?"

Yes. I always do, idiot. I'm just not going to do it right now. Let's focus on fixing my head and not pretending to worry about me just so you can cover your ass, liability wise.

"I wonder, do you have a plan? Do you know what you would do?"

OK, this is the stupidest part. I always smile and answer, "I know what will and won't work if that's what you're asking." BLANK STARE. Obviously that wasn't but now he or she looks concerned.

"Well do you have access to a gun? Or medication?"

Lady, I hate to break it to you, but the world is a dangerous place. Why would I bother finding a gun when I could walk down to my local underground station and save myself time and money. Dumbshit.

I think by this point people are so shocked at my candid nature and sheer disinterest that things start to get awkward and uncomfortable. The topic gets changed. Alas, they won't give me refills on my crazy medication because they are suckers for pain and like to squirm in their chair once a month to reassure themselves I'm not rotting away somewhere or causing society too much trouble.

Blah.

---

Sorry I haven't been around lately. I just don't feel like I have anything intelligent to contribute. My days consist of struggling not to stand on the scale and finding that balance between malnourishment and binge eating.

Doesn't seem like anyone would want to hear the woes of a girl who can't decide the next path for her life. Straddling the fence between blissful recovery and comforting insanity.

Lackadasical

Where should I start?

It's not the first time I've felt this way. If I really wanted to, I could go find my high school Xanga and quote a particularly sadsack entry.

But INSTEAD I'm probably just going to repeat myself unintentionally like a broken iPod...

---

You wouldn't know it by looking at me, but I'm incredibly insecure. This is probably why I over compensate with a booming personality and in-you-face obnoxious presence. I don't dislike myself, it's just that I can't find something about me that is incredible. My problem is I don't feel talented. I feel average.

Everyone's good at something, right? Some people are brilliant at lots of things. I'm. Just. Not. Don't think I'm feeling sorry for myself, it's just that I've tried loads of things and never found my niche. Artist, musician, vocalist, academic, dancer, comedienne, athlete, writer, corporate pig, laborer. I can do all these things, and pull off most of them.... but it's like all my skills are pooled into too many buckets. I'm not beautiful. But I'm not particularly unattractive. Just average.

This has a point, I promise.

So due to this insecurity, I'm pretty tightly wound, and perhaps I underachieve subconsciously because I'm afraid if I put in all my effort, I'll still fall short. The easier option is just to tell myself, "If I only tried harder, _________ would have been amazing!"

My grades last term are coming in. Fine, nothing to complain about. This term I won't just tell myself to try harder, I actually will put in the effort. Instead of doing my papers at the last minute, I'll start them over a month early. Draft, outline, properly research. This feels very productive.

Yesterday, I met with my adviser to throw ideas off him and show him six pages of citations for various projects that will eventually be handed in. He probably hadn't had a good day because he wasn't his usual cheery, grandfatherly self... but that's not even why I left his office later on with a quivering lip and watery eyes. It wasn't my research process that was lacking, it was my ideas. He told me to come back when I'd better developed something. I didn't tell him that I'd been working on this concept for over two years. It was as close to what It was as close to a substancial research question as I could manage, I thought.

Then I realized I've never really been able to be more than vague and overly general about anything I write about. I am not a person who can look at a text critically and ask, "What are the current tensions in blah blah blah and what does this imply?" My take is to say, "I'm interested in such and such and I'll be exploring blah blah notions" then wander around with words and examples until I've reached my work count.

I arrived to my next lecture late, and it was one of those horrible moments. The room was dark and I tried so hard to put my own troubles on the back burner to focus on the pretty pictures or the seemingly natural way my professor could incorporate obscure words into his lexicon. I realized I was crying. Then I became angry at myself for crying, silently wiping tears away from my face. This was futile because fat little water droplets kept running down my cheeks. Since I was already late for lecture, I couldn't disrupt the class for a second time to leave for the bathroom. I just prayed that no one noticed me in the darkness of the room.

No one did. In fact, after using my scarf to periodically scrub my face and nose (yes, it's in the hamper to get washed) by the end of lecture, I looked as fresh as a daisy, if not a little worn and tired. There I was again, personable and social surrounded by people who had no idea what was inside me. I felt incredibly distanced. Alone in a crowded room.

---

Long story short, I knew something had to be done. If I didn't handle my emotions, I would resent my advisor and I couldn't afford to avoid him for the next seven months. My only option, it seemed, was to stuff my feelings down. Literally. Punishment.

This would not be a normal binge. I had to torture myself for allowing my carefully constructed facade to crack. On my way home, I used my last few coins to buy a hamburger.

And chicken nuggets.

Ask me when I ate these last. I ate and cried. It was disgusting and sad. But I accomplished what I set out to do: instead of loathing my professor, I hated myself for eating meat.

---

The worst part is that today it all feels like a fading dream.

anonymous monster

Also, I've started getting some super weird crazy spam as of late... this happening to you all?