Sunday, 25 July 2010

Engaging in some serious life fucking.

I'm being eaten alive by guilt, and I'm tempted to indulge myself and to type out the story of what I've done. What I haven't done, what I should have done and what I should do. Or maybe to write about how everything could have gone and how I SHOULD be feeling right now, to lose myself in an idea, in a place where I did what any decent person should have done, would have done. Grief is a luxury, grief is healing; wallowing in guilt is horribly self-indulgent, it achieves nothing.

I'm really not sure what to do. I'm sorry, I'm talking in circles and that's because in the last few lines, I've realised that I don't want to tell you what I'm feeling so guilty about, because then you'll be obliged to try to-

Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should disregard all of what I just typed. I'm not going to delete it, because everything I've written is true. But I know I've not really SAID a lot but don't worry, I'm done.

I'm really down right now, I'm angry at myself. I'm... just fed up, really. And even when I'm upset over something entirely separate to my appearance, like now, every fat cell in my body triples in size. I feel grotesque, deformed and I just want to lay in bed, with Pepsi Max and some books, until I lose some serious weight. And maybe I'll do that, that's actually sounding a really intelligent plan to me right now. I'm tired of how ugly this all is and how I'm just indulging the worst parts of who I am, instead of trying to be something. I always say I want to do or be something, but I'm just wasting any talent I might have. I'm wasting everything, sitting here feeling guilty. So, so ugly.

And now I'm waiting for the news and waiting for it all to get so much worse.

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