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.