coffee shop

Two older ladies, perhaps in their forties or fifties, are talking about dieting and food. I'm sitting here wishing every ounce of cellulite and fat on my body would magically shrivel up, die, and vanish into thin air. One of them just started a diet because her clothes are getting tight.

My best friend just had a baby a few months ago and is almost back down to her start weight, of 100 lbs soaking wet. Then again, she's 4'11", but what do I care? It's the WEIGHT that's my problem, my HEIGHT has nothing to do with anything other than my ability to reach things on the top shelf.

Last night, my father made a comment about my weight. He said something to the effect of, maybe if [I] didn't snack before and after meals, I wouldn't have such a pronounced midsection. I came back with something about how I'd learned [over-eating] from the best, with a pointed pat on his shoulders, and soon afterward, retreated to my bedroom.

See, I learned this bingeful, shameful behavior from him. My parents are not thin. They're not fit. Yeah, they're probably healthier than I am, at this point, and that's saying something, considering they both have life-altering/threatening diseases. 

I'm 25 and I look like a bloated balloon filled with jelly. Flabby, fat, little to no muscle, I get tired too easily; I'm in constant physical pain because I don't move my body enough. That is fucked up. I have cellulite nearly to my fucking knees... I'm not kidding. I wish I was.

Fortunately, things are changing. On a positive note, I AM losing again. If I eat anything, I basically purge it, the exception being breakfast. I'm counting calories, again, finally. And the pills, well, yes, I'm taking the pills again.

So there's something.

ending

I've purged every single day for the past two weeks.

I'm not losing weight.

I want to disappear. From this place; from this body; from this earth.

Fuck this.

the end is the beginning is the end is the

It isn't that I want to be skin and bones. I hate my skin, for more reasons than I can count, and my bones, well, they're no better. Strip the skin off, and they're ugly, bare, fragile, exposed. I don't want to be exposed. I don't want to be seen. I'm repulsed when people look at me, when they try to touch me. Not by them, by myself. I don't see it; what the hell is it that they see?

I don't want to die, not in the literal sense. Not as a metaphor, either. I don't know what I want, that's the pressing issue here.

I tell myself I don't care. I don't care. I. Don't. Care. Do Not. Not. Do. Care. I do. (Not.)

Instead of verbalizing, I give you motivation. This is what I spend my time doing, putting pictures into secret files on my computer.

Damn. So maybe part of the reason I can't sleep is because I got some cocaine over the weekend. I did most of it, but there's still a bit left over. I did a line earlier, and now I want more. I'm "motivated" to do something, but I do nothing.

My dog ran away earlier today. Apparently she was in the middle of the road, trying to make friends with the cars. The cars fly on the road I live on. I got a call from this cute couple down the road, and they were holding onto her for me. My blood literally ran cold. I think if she was hit, I'd... I don't know. I can't think about that.

I weigh roughly 145 pounds. I can't even... go... there...

There's a jar of peanut butter sitting next to my bed. Yes. I really am that pathetic.

Good night, world.