I'm sad tonight. Sad and lonely and just, well, sad. I've spoken before about my obsessions, and right now I have some pretty irrational, fixed, ideas. Ideas that are shrinking the obscurities and wonder of the world to the bulging ripples surrounding my thighs. Not just my thighs, but that about sums it up. I need to change my thinking, not my image, but I wish either was a simple as an undressing, a walk away from an unflattering body suit (on that subject, I tried on baby pink skinnies today. Don't even ask why, my reflection from that is an image that is burned for ever on to my retinas). I want to wriggle out from myself, kick the discarded glob into a corner and re-enter as something else. Anything else. It's not that I think there aren't worse things to be, it's just that I suppose I'm a strange kind of romantic, an optimist, somebody who believes in the beauty of life, just not myself. There's got to be more. That's the crux of it, I suppose; there's got to be more. Not more self-loathing, not more hatred. Just more. I tried chocolate tea and it's weirdly delicious. I need to try more things, because the old is getting, well, old.
But when once you've entered into a parallel world, you'll always know of the simpleness of the alternative to reality. It's a lot easier to change size than it is to change the world. I want to scream. I want to scream so fucking loud because I'm fucking tired of being quiet. I'm fucking tired of pretending shit is better, just because I'm reaching whatever the fuck healthy is, physically. It's so fucking easy to pretend everything is fucking better because a number on the scales says it fucking must be. I'm fucking tired of not saying fuck, of not being able to tell it to fuck off, to not be able to walk the fuck away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm a fucking mess, to be perfectly fucking honest.