Operation Mini-Skirt: -42.8 lbs.
Mental state: Doesn't bear thinking about.
When I wasn't contemplating the merits of bingeing, I spent yesterday drinking water and writing nonsense in a black and white composition book. You know those books? Crisp and clean, those pages, just waiting to be filled up with the brilliance of a young and eager mind. Mine mostly get filled with the twaddle of a frivolous and undisciplined mind. No matter, though. I like writing in them because they're sturdy - you can flip back and re-read your work all you want, and the page seams won't wear on you. This is especially wonderful, because every so often, I come up with something particularly witty, and I like to go back and suck as much as enjoyment from it as possible, reading it again and again until I get tired of it and believe it to be rubbish. I'm not sure, but it seems to be something akin to masturbation, doesn't it? Sometimes you have to work for your own perfect, pithy paragraphs... because a pretty piece of alliteration can be the key to joy when you're alone in a room with a blank page and a pencil... but if you repeat your reading of it too much, it just becomes boring and old, no?
Twaddle, I tell you. Absolute balderdash. Malarkey. Hogwash. Whatever you want to call it... I'm trying with all of my might to wean myself off of the Cheater's Menu of Gluttony and Fat that I've been living on since the holidays, and it's making me daft. Not only am I off regular-people servings again, but my brain is also about to be annexed by my hormones. If I could bring myself to care, I'd actually feel sorry for the people who are going to be around me this week. The next couple of days are going to be... brutal... Anything to distract myself from it, from the ever-present and gnawing desire to put as many fatty substances into my mouth as possible... If that means weighing the merits of good grammar versus choking one's chicken, so be it. Anything to get me through the day. If that means organising my closet, by order of colour, size, and occasion to wear item, so be it. If that means standing over the steam of a hot apple pie, inhaling until there couldn't possibly be any fragrance left, so fricking be it. Yesterday was the encore performance of Day One. The first day in a really long time where I didn't have even one tiny nibble of anything that I'm not allowed to have.
I'm going to be snappish, people. I'm going to be... brusque.
And the worst part is that I'm SO CLOSE to my goal weight! SO CLOSE... Like, I can see it, you know? It's only a tiny pin-prick of light at the end of the tunnel, but I can see it! This last month though... the tiny pin-prick hasn't been getting any bigger... it's just flickered on and off, as I go up and down the same five pounds on the goddamned scale...
God. There is so much joy to be found in a salami and provolone sandwich, I can't even explain to you. You know, a crisp lettuce leaf, with several slices of thinly sliced salami and two pieces of the round provolone - the sharp kind with the tang in the taste... a tiny touch of mayo... all on a crusty French baguette... or, or... mmm... an Italian panino... those small football shaped buns that are hard on the outside and cloudlike on the inside... Or... picture this... room temperature double-cream Brie, softened so it almost melds with the Melba of it's own volition...
Today is a day that will be fraught with the worst kind of withdrawal symptoms... I'll fidget in my seat, talking myself out of walking into the kitchen. I'll snap, and over-react to the simplest of queries...
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At least I look good. It's a policy of mine. If I'm going to be terrible to people, at least have the grace to put on a little make-up.