Non sequitur: Please take care to avoid stepping in my Crazy.

You like this one? It's called: "P.D. is still sitting her fat ass on the couch at 3 PM with no make-up on and she has no desire whatsoever to move a muscle, much less make herself feel less ... plain." Title is tentative, of course.



My Google Chrome browser window is overloaded with...let me count...33 open tabs...all of them blogs I have yet to read. I've been doing this all morning, playing catch-up. I promise I have a life. Somehow. K laughed at me this morning, looking at my computer screen. Hours and hours spent reading and commenting on blogs, and I'm still not done. And nearly every day, I add more to my reading list. I literally spend more time reading blogs here than I do reading any of my textbooks combined. Probably three times as much. No life? That's a very good possibility, you're right.

Go, Diego, Go! is playing next to me, and my perfect little angel is pointing out the differences between brontosauruses and microraptors. Lots of differences there.

Ha...her little voice. I wish I could record it for you. "That's a Teeee-REX!" :P

I want to thank everyone individually for taking the time to comment on my blog. I'm such a lame-o that those little tidbits from you ladies totally make my day, my hour, my life, to an extent. I mean, getting that little email that tells me you commented...It makes me happier than it should, probably. I get all excited. What a loser. Back to what I was saying: I'd like to thank you all individually, but I'm not feeling very...something...today. I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm feeling too much of nothing. Yes, I think that's more like it.

My binge failure(s) have taken their toll. Even after a moderate dose of laxatives, I've hit 134. Yeah. And you know what? The surprise, shock, self-loathing, and holyshitfuck howdidIletthishappen? feeling...is absent. This is...beyond...horrible. It's like I don't care that I'm getting fat. Oh, I care. Somewhere. Somehow. I feel powerless to stop the eating. In fact, I feel powerless to stop myself from loving the food I'm eating, and wanting more. Those are separate feelings, separate ideas. Sometimes eating (bingeing) is punishment. More often than not, that's what it is. I've yet to really delve into the reasons why I feel the need to punish myself this way, but I'm positive they number in the thousands.

See that behind me? Love handles. No one loves them. And they're always the first to return when I start to gain. God. Damn. It. All.

What kills me is that I can see the damage I'm doing, but my passion to change it, to better myself, is completely GONE. I thought perhaps that this was a passing phase, but it's not passing. I don't understand. The complacency is suffocating, but my empathy prevents me from caring about even that. I grab a straw, stick it up through the surface of the calmly swirling waters, and suck at the little bits of oxygen that are permitted me this way, and yet I do nothing to shake off the big, beefy hands that hold me under... What's WRONG with me? God, someone please tell me.

No, you won't. You're lovely. You'll tell me there's nothing wrong with me, and that tomorrow's another day, because that's what I'd tell you all. *sigh.* Things with my ED have only gotten worse over the past few weeks, and I'd have to be blindfolded not to see the connection to my therapy/counseling sessions. Is it because dabbling in the thought of growing healthy has suddenly stirred my responsible side from its long slumber, promising all sorts of false happiness if I'll just throw in the towel and accept life, ED free? Fuck, I have so many questions and alongside those questions, in a very random fashion, lie all the fragments of reality that tell the truth: No One Has The Answer.

That's a rather disheartening thought.

I started out today with full intentions of holding myself to a liquid fast until dinner. That's right, not even a full day, just hold out til supper time. Lasted all of five hours. Vegetables with baby shrimp. A tablespoon of peanut butter. A bite of cottage cheese. A bowl of oatmeal. I haven't counted calories yet, but I will. I've been doing a lot of food stalking online, as K and I will be celebrating V-Day tonight, and I want to go somewhere new and interesting and exotic...something I've never tried before, like French food or African, or Turkish, or something. I want to eat and not care, drink and not care, and look amazing in my new skirt.

If I do, I'll post pictures.

I want to know why it feels so good to eat, when that feeling should be the one thing I dread most in the world. I want to remember and LIVE the feeling of being lovely and light and empty, and I want to hate the thought of eating because it only serves to destroy me, slowly, painfully...Why in the world would I want to do that to myself? Apathy. I..just can't care. None of this makes sense.

Sorry this is so long, and that the tone sucks. Meh.

Oh, and in the time it took me to write this blog, B fell asleep next to me on the couch. I should definitely take this time to work out...should. I'll have a serving of motivation, please, with a side of getthefuckoffthecouch and a stopbeingsodamnlazy salad. Thanks.

For your daily dose of smiles:



Love you all...

<3