My hands are covered in cuts. It's odd, but the only way I can tell for sure that I am not eating enough, is that all the skin on my hands splits. I know that, in theory, there should be other ways, but I have really odd metabolism and so I can't tell by changes in my weight and I get light headed and have palpitations and all that no matter how high or low my intake. I'm not really sure how else somebody would realise that they weren't eating enough. I realised this at the weekend and I keep putting off upping my intake. I know that sounds a bit stupid, but I keep assuring myself that the new diet will start tomorrow, the new diet being more calories than the current one. How times change, hahaha.
The thing is, I don't need to gain weight and I could quite easily lose, um, a lot. I could maybe do with losing- NO. SHUT UP, BRAIN; I'm not getting into that. Part of me thinks that a few cuts in my hand is a fine price to pay, if I lose weight. But the other part knows that there just isn't any point. THERE IS NO POINT IN LOSING WEIGHT. It won't make me happier and it won't be fun- and I don't believe in doing anything, these days, that won't make me happier or won't be fun. But still, actually bringing myself to... not even stop losing weight, I could lose as much as I am doing now at a higher intake, because my metabolism is starting to crash from too few calories. But just eating a little more, I don't know. I'm definitely over-thinking it.
I need to stop trying to analyse it. Ok, new topic. I went to Cleethorpes on Monday, with Momma Ginge. Cue the funniest seaside trip, ever. It was freezing; so, so, so windy and early evening. Nobody else was about and- I don't think I'm doing this story justice, I'm actually howling as I type, but maybe you had to be there. SOZ'ARD. Right, I'm off- I need to get ready to go meet Lauren, we're off to the cinema and sneaking in vodka- excellent.