alsdfj;sldkfj;aslfjs;dlfkj I'm finding it difficult to keep my word to post often.
But that's going to change. Beginning TODAY.
Today is January 31st. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new month, a NEW me, NEW eating habits, etc.
I'm going to call January my "fuck-up" month.
The first month of the year, when I was supposed to completely change and cease my bingeing and no-exercising lifestyle. But of course, that did not happen.
So tomorrow is going to be the beginning. Also, 11 days from now on February 10 will be the one year anniversary of this blog. I can't say that I didn't make any progress; I did manage to lose 15 pounds in two weeks in April. But it all came back, and I'm at the weight I was at when I made this blog.
148. Let it siiiiiiiink in.
1 4 8
I'm beginning a bi-weekly kickboxing class this week. I hope it helps.
Vampire Weekend is coming to my city in March. Rest assured, I WILL have lost at the very LEAST 20 pounds by then.
P.S. I turned 19 on January 24. Hurrah.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Minus 4 pounds since January 1.
EDIT
I went to pick up my mum from the airport today. We stopped by Target to get some things, and I caught a whiff of Long John Silver's in the parking lot.
I went to LJS, got some fish & chips. Bad bad bad badbabdadlkfjasl;dfkjas;dfljsd;fljk idea!
I have promised myself that I will not purge this year. So now I have disgusting, grease-laden, fatty, sodium-laden fish and fries in my stomach.
Bring on the gastro-intestinal discomfort. It hurts, so very very badly.
Physically and mentally.
Fuck you, Skinny Love! You're a cruel person.
Orange juice for dinner. Mmmm.
------------------------------------------------------------
Wooptie-doo.
What an achievement, eh?
What shit progress....but at least it's progress.
Right?
I suppose I shouldn't be angry with anything except myself.
After all, even though I'm eating less than 600 calories everyday, I'm not excersising.
I should be doing that, shouldn't I?
Whatev.
Tomorrow is the first day of the second semester of yooneevursuhtee. BOO.
I will find time to update this. I swear on all the fat on my bones.
I went to pick up my mum from the airport today. We stopped by Target to get some things, and I caught a whiff of Long John Silver's in the parking lot.
I went to LJS, got some fish & chips. Bad bad bad badbabdadlkfjasl;dfkjas;dfljsd;fljk idea!
I have promised myself that I will not purge this year. So now I have disgusting, grease-laden, fatty, sodium-laden fish and fries in my stomach.
Bring on the gastro-intestinal discomfort. It hurts, so very very badly.
Physically and mentally.
Fuck you, Skinny Love! You're a cruel person.
Orange juice for dinner. Mmmm.
------------------------------------------------------------
Wooptie-doo.
What an achievement, eh?
What shit progress....but at least it's progress.
Right?
I suppose I shouldn't be angry with anything except myself.
After all, even though I'm eating less than 600 calories everyday, I'm not excersising.
I should be doing that, shouldn't I?
Whatev.
Tomorrow is the first day of the second semester of yooneevursuhtee. BOO.
I will find time to update this. I swear on all the fat on my bones.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Almost two weeks since my last post :O
I am in no way suggesting that you use drugs as a means of weight loss.
Wait, what was that bullshit?
I use illegal drugs to achieve what I want, so why should I be a hypocrite and attempt to dissuade you?
I've been taking ecstasy for the past two months now, and while I haven't exactly lost any weight, I haven't been gaining....but that's not what I want. I don't want a fucking plateau...just because I ain't gainin' don't mean I'm doin' a good job.
It may be the weed...I roll and then don't feel hungry. But then I smoke and get the munchies...but then the tabs take over and I begin to hallucinate...and although food is fucking delicious when you're tripping, I prefer not to make a fool out of myself by eating while my brain is all kinds of mental.
The X makes me feel...well, ecstatic. But everytime I roll there is that underlying ED shit, which always surfaces and basically ruins my fun. Every happy thought is over-powered by "Oh my gosh, haha! I'm so repulsive and fat, haha!" Being both ecstatic and morose at the same time is not fun. It's sickening and irritating and I despise it.
I've scratched the letters F.A.T. onto my belly. I get to seem them everytime I change my clothes. It's wonderful.
I learned how to do the running man, fuck yeah! It's nice to go to a club and actually be able to dance, and dance well.
Note to self: Never go to another 30-year-old DJ's birthday bash. The only people there are 28+ sleazy creeps who stand with their arms crossed and don't dance.
I watched Control the other day. It's a biopic about Ian Curtis, lead singer of Joy Division. I strongly suggest you watch it, if you fancy films like that.
I won't ruin anything, but the ending was awful. By awful I don't mean the movie itself, but the events which took place.
Some of you may recall, back in August, when I wrote the post about my mum's friend who had shot himself in our yard. Michael. I have cried for him almost everyday since his death.
We've placed photos of him all around the house, and just a passing glance is enough to choke me up.
Anyway. The ending of Control brought up some deeply hidden emotion inside me.
As I watched it, a wail rose up and exploded out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I'm explaining this very well, but just imagine a scene in a movie where something tragic happens and someone goes mental and weeps and wails and completely falls apart.
That's what happened to me.
I sat on the couch and wept for Michael. This was no ordinary crying. This was me getting my limbs severed and being hit with a flaming, spiked mace. I was blinded by grief and tears, and I was gasping for air. I fell asleep after what seemed like hours, and when I woke up my face was puffy and there were dry rivulets of white all over. It felt as though I'd been crushed and then rebuilt, and then crushed again and again and again.
Thank God my house is in a small forest.
That was a few days ago. I'm not better, I never will become better. I'm not going to move on, think about only his happy moments. It's impossible. I was born to dwell on the morose, the macabre, the loneliness. The image of his last moments becomes more gruesome everytime I imagine it. I blame myself for always acting stand-offish and never initiating a conversation with him.
I never took a photo with him, never gave him a hug, never gave him a gift. I displaced myself from his presence, and all because I thought he was awkward and strange (he was. But I embrace eccentricity...what the fuck).
While my actions (or lack thereof) didn't cause him to do what he did, I can't help but feel as though I had something to do with it. Maybe he didn't realize it. But my vibe of indifference/get-away-from-me-weirdo was most definitely NOT constructive.
He needed love and friendship, and I gave nothing. Not one fucking thing.
I don't imagine myself ever committing suicide (except for me slowly killing myself with my ED), but if I could switch places with Michael, I would. An infinite amount of times.
Why is it that all the evil ones survive, and all the good ones die?
blah blah blah, I'm sick of talking about myself right now. I want to know about YOU, how YOU have been doing? Of course, I could just read your blogs...I mean that is what they're here for. However, I'm either too lazy or unmotivated at the moment.
So jes' leamme a lil' comment right quick so's I can see how yer doin', please!
Photo:
DELETED
That was me in November...I haven't had the courage to take any photos of myself since then. And yes, my eyes are out of wack.
Wait, what was that bullshit?
I use illegal drugs to achieve what I want, so why should I be a hypocrite and attempt to dissuade you?
I've been taking ecstasy for the past two months now, and while I haven't exactly lost any weight, I haven't been gaining....but that's not what I want. I don't want a fucking plateau...just because I ain't gainin' don't mean I'm doin' a good job.
It may be the weed...I roll and then don't feel hungry. But then I smoke and get the munchies...but then the tabs take over and I begin to hallucinate...and although food is fucking delicious when you're tripping, I prefer not to make a fool out of myself by eating while my brain is all kinds of mental.
The X makes me feel...well, ecstatic. But everytime I roll there is that underlying ED shit, which always surfaces and basically ruins my fun. Every happy thought is over-powered by "Oh my gosh, haha! I'm so repulsive and fat, haha!" Being both ecstatic and morose at the same time is not fun. It's sickening and irritating and I despise it.
I've scratched the letters F.A.T. onto my belly. I get to seem them everytime I change my clothes. It's wonderful.
I learned how to do the running man, fuck yeah! It's nice to go to a club and actually be able to dance, and dance well.
Note to self: Never go to another 30-year-old DJ's birthday bash. The only people there are 28+ sleazy creeps who stand with their arms crossed and don't dance.
I watched Control the other day. It's a biopic about Ian Curtis, lead singer of Joy Division. I strongly suggest you watch it, if you fancy films like that.
I won't ruin anything, but the ending was awful. By awful I don't mean the movie itself, but the events which took place.
Some of you may recall, back in August, when I wrote the post about my mum's friend who had shot himself in our yard. Michael. I have cried for him almost everyday since his death.
We've placed photos of him all around the house, and just a passing glance is enough to choke me up.
Anyway. The ending of Control brought up some deeply hidden emotion inside me.
As I watched it, a wail rose up and exploded out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I'm explaining this very well, but just imagine a scene in a movie where something tragic happens and someone goes mental and weeps and wails and completely falls apart.
That's what happened to me.
I sat on the couch and wept for Michael. This was no ordinary crying. This was me getting my limbs severed and being hit with a flaming, spiked mace. I was blinded by grief and tears, and I was gasping for air. I fell asleep after what seemed like hours, and when I woke up my face was puffy and there were dry rivulets of white all over. It felt as though I'd been crushed and then rebuilt, and then crushed again and again and again.
Thank God my house is in a small forest.
That was a few days ago. I'm not better, I never will become better. I'm not going to move on, think about only his happy moments. It's impossible. I was born to dwell on the morose, the macabre, the loneliness. The image of his last moments becomes more gruesome everytime I imagine it. I blame myself for always acting stand-offish and never initiating a conversation with him.
I never took a photo with him, never gave him a hug, never gave him a gift. I displaced myself from his presence, and all because I thought he was awkward and strange (he was. But I embrace eccentricity...what the fuck).
While my actions (or lack thereof) didn't cause him to do what he did, I can't help but feel as though I had something to do with it. Maybe he didn't realize it. But my vibe of indifference/get-away-from-me-weirdo was most definitely NOT constructive.
He needed love and friendship, and I gave nothing. Not one fucking thing.
I don't imagine myself ever committing suicide (except for me slowly killing myself with my ED), but if I could switch places with Michael, I would. An infinite amount of times.
Why is it that all the evil ones survive, and all the good ones die?
blah blah blah, I'm sick of talking about myself right now. I want to know about YOU, how YOU have been doing? Of course, I could just read your blogs...I mean that is what they're here for. However, I'm either too lazy or unmotivated at the moment.
So jes' leamme a lil' comment right quick so's I can see how yer doin', please!
Photo:
That was me in November...I haven't had the courage to take any photos of myself since then. And yes, my eyes are out of wack.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
I thought I was going to begin 2010 as a skinny bitch.
Instead I've literally been eating myself to death. The first week of the new year has been filled with nothing but eating, by the hour, every hour.
And so many things have happened during my months of uncalled for absence from here.
I had a duty to blog, a duty to keep in touch with the only beings on this planet who understand.
And yet I failed to do even that, as I've failed to keep my promises of abstaining from food.
If I am such a failure in the eating aspect of my life, what will that mean for the rest of my life?
Will I fail at everything else as well?
If I don't have the strength to refrain from such a basic fucking thing, how will I ever have the strength for other things? What the fuck? What. the. FUCK?
I don't even know how much I fucking weigh. It could be 160 lbs for all I know.
I've ceased to live, ceased to exist. My body is merely a machine, functioning only on the actions of eating and shitting.
I feel nothing; my body is hollow but for the food falsely filling it.
I have forfeited my right of life in return for the false, momentary satisfaction of chewandswallow.
It's a disgusting feeling, going to a club and knowing that the man you are dancing with can feel your every lump, your every roll, your every cellulite ridge.
Even the beautiful influence of Ecstasy and weed can't overpower that knowledge.
(If you find yourself about to take Salvia, Shrooms, Acid, or any other hallucinogen, prepare yourself for [even more than already] exacerbated ED problems.)
I have not exercised.
I have not fasted.
I have not felt hunger.
I have lazed.
I have feasted.
I have felt and seen my stomach bulge out further than my breasts (mind you, my breasts are only a 36B..not large at all).
Every waking moment the skeleton in my body has attempted to claw itself out of its obese prison.
And every waking moment a new layer of lard has been added, further trapping the skeleton.
This skeleton is livid, is enraged, is hurt beyond any describable words or thoughts.
This skeleton is swiftly becoming obsolete. But this skeleton will never surrender.
This skeleton is going to annihilate every last iota of fat that ever existed in Skinny Love's body.
This motherfucking skeleton is back. With a motherfucking bang.
And so many things have happened during my months of uncalled for absence from here.
I had a duty to blog, a duty to keep in touch with the only beings on this planet who understand.
And yet I failed to do even that, as I've failed to keep my promises of abstaining from food.
If I am such a failure in the eating aspect of my life, what will that mean for the rest of my life?
Will I fail at everything else as well?
If I don't have the strength to refrain from such a basic fucking thing, how will I ever have the strength for other things? What the fuck? What. the. FUCK?
I don't even know how much I fucking weigh. It could be 160 lbs for all I know.
I've ceased to live, ceased to exist. My body is merely a machine, functioning only on the actions of eating and shitting.
I feel nothing; my body is hollow but for the food falsely filling it.
I have forfeited my right of life in return for the false, momentary satisfaction of chewandswallow.
It's a disgusting feeling, going to a club and knowing that the man you are dancing with can feel your every lump, your every roll, your every cellulite ridge.
Even the beautiful influence of Ecstasy and weed can't overpower that knowledge.
(If you find yourself about to take Salvia, Shrooms, Acid, or any other hallucinogen, prepare yourself for [even more than already] exacerbated ED problems.)
I have not exercised.
I have not fasted.
I have not felt hunger.
I have lazed.
I have feasted.
I have felt and seen my stomach bulge out further than my breasts (mind you, my breasts are only a 36B..not large at all).
Every waking moment the skeleton in my body has attempted to claw itself out of its obese prison.
And every waking moment a new layer of lard has been added, further trapping the skeleton.
This skeleton is livid, is enraged, is hurt beyond any describable words or thoughts.
This skeleton is swiftly becoming obsolete. But this skeleton will never surrender.
This skeleton is going to annihilate every last iota of fat that ever existed in Skinny Love's body.
This motherfucking skeleton is back. With a motherfucking bang.
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