This is the way I feel, so I might as well write about it. I know it's boring. But alas.
I feel fat. Like a stuffed, water-bloated pig level of fat. Muffin top over the pants, bags below my eyes, feeling like my face is a chubby, water-inflated expanse and my once reasonably pretty breasts seem like inflated cow tits. It's miserable. To the point where I am dreaming of buying diet pills and diuretics from Rite-Aid when I get paid, chain smoking while I type, and doing ab work every few minutes. Fantasizing about when I can earn enough money to go back to Bikram yoga and sweat out all the toxins and when I can ever get a gym membership again and pick up some weights. When will my life not be in such a financial/emotional tizzy that I can get two solid hours to just work the fuck out?
Granted, in reality I recognize that I am far from "fat", being a solid 20 BMI. I'm pretty sure this is, as always, PMS-related. Grr.
OK, that and I have a boyfriend that feeds me healthfully and then makes sweet love to me constantly. There really could be a link between being fat and happy. I was miserable and anorexic before and I think that fucked my metabolism up on a level. I think that gaining all this weight isn't a consequence of my being so unhealthy now, which in actuality I am not. Quite the opposite: I've been vegan, gluten-free and highly un-processed for a few months now and dancing 3-5 nights per week. I only recently started drinking again after my 30 days of alcohol abstinence, and I don't drink or smoke weed very often anymore and almost never do drugs. So...
Other than that, I have little to complain about, which may be why I haven't written too much. That, and having a job. And getting laid all day between articles that I finish. There is something to be said about a life where I have someone around that wants to fuck me open all the time in between writing, chopped salads, dancing, video games, deep conversation, dark chocolate, and Battlestar Galactica that makes me think that things will be OK.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Going there
Labels:
ball-dropping,
Battlestar Galactica,
cigarettes,
Elijah,
fat,
yoga
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