Broken

A week ago, I was in a car accident. Luckily, my friends and I, as well as the driver that careened in front of us, all walked away relatively unscathed. I did have to go to the hospital, and apparently the shit-faced eighteen year old driving the other car broke some important bone. I don't hate him, I only pity him, and the whole situation makes me sad and frustrated with today's world.

I've lost so many people I cared about to drunk driving. I've done more than my fair share of stupid shit while I was inebriated, behind the wheel, or horrifically, both. I'm no saint, not by a long shot. I can only hope that this kid has had a little bit of common sense knocked into him, and realizes just how damned lucky he is that he didn't get himself killed, or kill anyone else. Like me, or one of my friends. He'd have had an army of angry, vengeful mercenaries hunting him for the rest of his life, make no mistake.

But no, we're all okay, mostly. We're surviving, and that's what matters. It could have been much worse. It'd have been nice if it hadn't happened at all, but what's done is done.

The good news for me is that everything seems to be healing up well enough on its own, and the prospect of surgery is fairly low. I still have another appointment with the surgeon in a week to null the idea altogether, but I'm hopeful.

On to other news.

This weekend, there's a massive music festival that I and my friends are all attending. It's going to be wickedly fun, and hopefully a pleasant escape from the hellish nature of the everyday. I by no means hate my life at this point, but I'm not necessarily enthralled with it. I've had my share of depressions, and I've felt the claws of it prodding me recently, warning of its ease to return, so familiar, a cruel ex-lover who, regardless, knows how you crave to be held, even if by Death itself.

I've been packing on the pounds. I now weigh over 150 pounds, at 5 feet 4 inches height. I am not pleased, needless to say. I'm rather appalled at my complete lack and disinterest in any semblance of self control. It's as if I'd rather stuff my face, like my emotions, rather than focus on my general health or well-being or, you know, dignity. I haven't weighed this much in... a year, or better. I'm disgusting, and disgusted.

This is changing, starting now, because nothing ever comes from waiting for tomorrow to get things done.

I'm a habitual bulimic, but due to my broken nose from the accident, I figure that's no longer a 'good idea', as my sinuses are already pretty fucked up. So, I'll just have to reach into those unfathomable bottomless pits of control, I know I still have some, and grow some balls. Just do it, as they say.

Wish me luck. This is going to be hell to pay.

This time last year, I was 130, and dropping.

I'm giving myself to the end of the week to wipe out the last of the bad foods from my pantry, and then it's no more miss piggy. It's going down.

Obesity is not my friend. I will beat it into the ground, and then six feet under.

So help me gods.