I don't like this post because I come off like an insipid pleb in it but who gives a fuck because self-censorship is bullshit and LET IT GO ALREADY

Okay so it's new years this evening. There's about  twelve plans that have been bandied about. All of them are too hectic for my liking. Even the most chilled one, a dinner vibe with three other couples, involves mdma. Yeah, and all the other options have been combos of dinner, dance, drinking, coke, mdma. I'm on holiday. I'm in a super chilled state and staying up late every night. Low energy flow. I would prefer (in fact, what I want to do is) to stay home, eat pizza, and watch a movie (or two). It's not the new years many people would cast as No. 1 but it's way more lame to force yourself out when you don't feel like it (and then be buzzing and wrecked the next day due to substances and a hangover, all due to a jam you didn't really want to join). So I am going to remain steadfast in my cosy plans. 

And yes, of course, my lack of desire to go out generally does relate deeply to my unhappiness with my weight. Of course, I won't deny that, least of all here. 

I did a little bit of restricting today. By that I mean I went out to dinner with friends and made really good food choices. Vegetarian sushi platter (so delicious, I'm generally there for the soy sauce, wasabi, rice, avocado combo anyway i.e. no fish, no loss) and then declined ordering at the ice cream place we went to afterward. The toasty waffle smells were amazing but it wasn't too bad. I suppose I could record what I ate. I mean, it's bad, but I suppose the shame and accountability of that ... effort... (?) helped me last time.

So, 

1 black coffee, 

2 x coffee with milk.

1 bagel with salmon, loads of cream cheese and olives

1 bagel with loads of cream cheese and hot sauce 

1 whisky, lime and soda

1 beer

1 veg sushi platter (six avo maki, four avo cucumber fashion sandwiches, four avo cucumber cali rolls)

1/2 glass milk

1/5 bagel

10 (?) pieces of chocolate

4 or 5 chocolate peanuts

I mean, obviously, this is nothing compared to my rice cake days (oh the days of yore) and while I am ashamed of my perpetual picking and nibbling and drinking and BS, tbh, I am not wracked with agony right now. It's food. People eat food. Sigh. Can you see why I have recoveredish. Not enough self-loathing. So much normal perspective. I am thankful. I am. I am. I am. I'm just tired of feeling ugly. It hurts so badly. 

I wanted to come on here and say "oh, I'll try and fast tomorrow" but, really, I won't. I'm tempted, though, to do milky coffees the whole day and then pig out in the evening with this movie. Maybe champagne and sushi... or champagne and pizza... or beer and one of those things. I mean, or do I, I suppose that I'm fucking myself over by not eating in the mornings. I mean I could feel it today with the two bagels at lunch; one was delicious but I had the second purely because I had been missioning around the shops and came home thirsty and starving. I mean I know what "good people" do and that I don't do those things. I just don't know if I can deal with trying and failing all the time. That's kinda why I can't have freedom. In other words, I would be safer (in mind) if I just forced myself to have one slice of peanut butter toast for breakfast every morning no matter what. Ugh. Tiring, isn't it. Wringing my hands over all this nonsense for no reason over and over night after night day after day. Silly girl. But I am so tired of feeling ugly.

Boyf wants me to go with him to his colleagues birthday thing in 24 days time. I can't. I can't. They are incredibly young and beautiful and hot. And I am an awful ugly blob. An old lady who doesn't love herself and can't even have an eating disorder properly. But it's not true though. I love myself better now than I have. I am more comfortable and confident now than I was. I have to be able to let myself be happy without eating whatever I want (clearly I have always strongly associated the two). It can't be that hard, can it? What if I stay here. What if I try and lose a kilogram every 5 days or so. I mean it is possible. Hard for me because I can't stick to my own plans but it is possible. I need to start wearing a ring to remind myself to eat consciously (it catches my eye when I reach for food, basic, I know).

God, I'm rambling. Tired, in a nice placid zone, avoiding bed again. Ugh, I have to clean out that goddamn fridge tomorrow. Okay, I love you, GL.

And no I don't mind that my writing style changes from day to day and I seem like a different person from day to day. This is, in fact, how I am. I think its part of where this thing and we all come from. We are not only one person. We have one body and many people inside.

too dirty to clean my act up

...I moved into my new place today. Living with two others. The fridge had to be moved to get the bed in. The fridge had to be emptied to be moved. I picked up a thing, I didn't know what it was, bean sprouts - rotten - fell to the floor, down the fridge' door. Orangey greyish slimy. Disgusting.

I used to be so messy. I lived in a tip as child. My room was one huge pile. I made wells in the clothes strewn on the floor to jump from my bed to the door so that I could be sure I wouldn't break anything on my way in and out. Then I lived in residence for two years. Your whole life there is in your room. I would tidy almost everyday. The bathrooms were communal. You can't clean them or decorate them; there's no point. Then I lived in a house with five housemates for two years. The house was old and un-cleanable. There was so much junk everywhere; moldy stained carpets that you couldn't extract the dirt from; minuscule kitchen; housemates' hair everywhere; slime filmed shower floor; sloughing linoleum. Everything was gross all the time. Then I went back home. My mother is a low-grade hoarder. She keeps everything: Piles of old brochures and papers and magazines; piles of sachets of salt from take-out bought six years ago; scratched and graying plasticware; wicker trays cracking and unraveling. Piles of piles on piles for the sake of piles. Every surface a plain of dust. Every item a crevice for dust pyramids. Then the house before this one. My messy messy boyfriend. Sitting, smoking, paper and tobacco and plastic wrap and pizza boxes all placed just out of arm's reach as though that is somehow a significant place to put something.

If there are people around you they will destroy any effort you make to create clean and calm. My efforts were pointless and my resentment ebbs and flows as the scatters of crumbs and splats of toothpaste foam mount and recede. Stuff. I used to like aesthetically-pleasing clutter. Books with pretty covers. Ornaments. That sort of thing. I cannot stand stuff anymore. It's tiring. Muck muck muck. Filth filth filth. Noisy spaces. (I mean, I have to keep some ornamentation, to signal that I have a personality.)

And despite all my complaining (mostly inward griping and seething) I do very little about it. But those rotten sprouts. So disgusting. Why do people live like this. I think its a sign of being spoilt, really, I do. Because it's easy to be un-bothered about making a mess when you know you can just go into another room, a garden, whatever, and escape it. It's a privilege.

Why do I complain here? What is the relevance. Because I feel that this constant burning dissatisfaction mirrors my constant smoldering dissatisfaction with my bodily home. The dissatisfaction compounds because I can't escape either of these places: My shitty bodyhome or my shitty homehome. And, (surprisingly) surprisingly, a new body is more attainable than a new home. Ah money. We get it and we spend it. Ah calories. We get them and we can't expend them. Fuuuuuuuuccccccccckkkkk.

another dollar another day

I wouldn't say I coaxed myself back here. If anything, I've popped back in because google has made it that much easier to recover your passwords and the like online. I remember how devastating it was to me when I was sat in front of my computer with a friend and the machine automatically logged me into my blogger email (this was years ago now). I could tell she was suspicious. They were all suspicious; then. They are not suspicious now. Because I'm fat and busy and eat in front of them. Although sometimes I know they are watching. Because I binge in front of them too. Quickly, haphazardly, lunging across tables at slices of pizza when I've already eaten an intolerable amount right before their eyes. They wonder; how is it? How is it that she eats so much. Why is it? Why is it that she its like this. Like she's just emerged from the jungle having survived on rainwater for a week. But you'll never know for certain. And I shan't fucking tell you.

When I logged back in, about 30 minutes ago, I was wracked by a keen ache in my chest: Blogger told me I was not invited to read my own blog. Contact the author? But that's me. This is me. This is mine. This was mine. For years and years and years. I hoarded, and typed, and tweaked, cut, copied and paste. And made a little nest here, a little den of vomitous odored rags in which I curled and nestled in all my self-pity, self-hate, self-loathing. It's all changed but it hasn't. I suppose I'm a woman now. What a pity: Too busy to indulge myself in an eating disorder. 

But I'm preoccupied by my body endlessly so who am I kidding. Am I less sick or more sick? Was I ever sick? Am I pathetically congratulating myself for being special in a world full of hundreds of thousands of other pathetics churning out the same gumph on this mediocre social medium? Social!? Are you fucking joking. I do not come here then or now to be social. This is a dark hole. My dark hole of comfort. I am here to be alone. To love myself by opening up about how much I hate myself. But I don't really (hate myself). I am a woman now. I am too busy too hate myself.

But I wouldn't mind writing myself, again, I suppose. Ah, I'm lonely. I suppose I'm in love but he's high all time and it drives me mad and close to tears, alternately.

So what can I say. Yes, a lot has changed. Things always change. But I don't feel like talking about it. It's tiring. I don't talk to myself about myself too tire myself. I only do introspection as relief. Like purging. 

So what is there to say. I am fat again. So what. I'm ostensibly successful. In terms of career. In terms of career labels. But I have yet to see the dollardollarbills I want and deserve. And I really do deserve them because I'm competent and work so fucking hard its revolting. Obnoxious little weed. Well, not little. Obnoxious sea cucumber. Obnoxious sea urchin (I like the way their flagella wiggle in the current). Some amorphous blob creature; you get where I'm trying to go with this. 

Do I want to be fat. No - exasperation - obviously not. One's appearance signals one's worth and I want people to know that I'm better than them. Well, no, that's not quiet right. I want people to at least suspect that, even though they think I am a worthless trash heap of a human being, their dislike will not permeate the impenetrable obviousness of my objectively acceptable exterior. I hope your dislike slides off me like I'm a freshly waxed bonnet (automative, not millenary). I want my body to be my armour. My first line of defense. My own Iron Dome. 

Oh, and, barring a few fuck ups this year, I have adulted myself out of bulimia. Well done. But now you're fucking fat again. And, well, here we are, isn't it.