I am very tired. I wrote a post and attempted publishing but it hasn't worked.
I wish I had the courage to ask people to evaluate me and my appearance honestly.
I wish I had the guts to dress as a character every day.
I wish I was thinner, cleverer, and sought after by a certain dollish someone.
I wish I wrote well.
I can.
Wednesday 28 February 2007
Medusa and her lesser compadre.
I usually write about her. Well, I write about what she gave me. The fluttering glim of feeling that welled in my stomach from the site where she first touched, and so on and so on, a loose loop of idiom and metaphor, god knows what else thrown in.
Or I write about calories.
It appears that I crave the impossible, or what I cannot have, but surely this is a normative human state; our reason for being is to accumulate. Not necessarily material goods, but love, or respect, or whatever we crave. A good figure, and her, in my case. Intelligence wouldn't be too bad either.
I am so much more than this, and I wish I could show myself as I truly am. Usually, I am happy, or doing something, never discussing my weight; it is a scheherezade, a dance of the seven veils, always haunting me night after night. When I awake, a cursory glance suggests I'm not so bad, but at night I have swollen, become a flaccid mess. Removal of my maquillage doesn't aid this. By night, I am a gorgon. Daily? I cover, I veil, albeit thinly.
Or I write about calories.
It appears that I crave the impossible, or what I cannot have, but surely this is a normative human state; our reason for being is to accumulate. Not necessarily material goods, but love, or respect, or whatever we crave. A good figure, and her, in my case. Intelligence wouldn't be too bad either.
I am so much more than this, and I wish I could show myself as I truly am. Usually, I am happy, or doing something, never discussing my weight; it is a scheherezade, a dance of the seven veils, always haunting me night after night. When I awake, a cursory glance suggests I'm not so bad, but at night I have swollen, become a flaccid mess. Removal of my maquillage doesn't aid this. By night, I am a gorgon. Daily? I cover, I veil, albeit thinly.
Fieldmice, headlice, spiders in the kitchen.
Today's consumption:
a sausage batch (400)
pic and mix (100g, liquorice allsorts and brazil nuts) (400)
an apple (30)
two tangerines (30)
tortellini and pesto (400)
hot chocolate (40)
1300. And I walked, a little, and went to rehearsals. They started off very badly; my part is smaller than I believed, and the narcissist in me dislikes that. But today I felt that my cast isn't as stuck up as I thought they were. I hate that I am the tallest and fattest girl, and the fattest generally. I suppose this could change by May; not height, but size. I despise warm up routines that involve touching others or running about because I think this accentuates my flab. I just measured myself; in inches, 36-29-39. Height still five feet eight. Bust, waist, hips. My waist was far smaller. And it is depressing that my bust is far smaller than my hips, I wish I could change this measurement.
What else? I was able to contribute to a literary discussion even though I hadn't read the literature, so that was another day of feeling clever for me. Till my rehearsals, when I felt fat and it obliterated the clever feeling. I dislike the idea that other people can see this mass flabbing around, and judge me on it. Then, the other good thing was that my cast is pleasant. What else? I'm not as fat as I could be; but nor am I as thin as I could be. I kept within my calorie quota.
I was going to type up something I wrote, but it is too embarrassingly bad, even for this page. Instead. I shall write a descriptive something, because otherwise the number of posts will affect my triskaidekaphobia.
a sausage batch (400)
pic and mix (100g, liquorice allsorts and brazil nuts) (400)
an apple (30)
two tangerines (30)
tortellini and pesto (400)
hot chocolate (40)
1300. And I walked, a little, and went to rehearsals. They started off very badly; my part is smaller than I believed, and the narcissist in me dislikes that. But today I felt that my cast isn't as stuck up as I thought they were. I hate that I am the tallest and fattest girl, and the fattest generally. I suppose this could change by May; not height, but size. I despise warm up routines that involve touching others or running about because I think this accentuates my flab. I just measured myself; in inches, 36-29-39. Height still five feet eight. Bust, waist, hips. My waist was far smaller. And it is depressing that my bust is far smaller than my hips, I wish I could change this measurement.
What else? I was able to contribute to a literary discussion even though I hadn't read the literature, so that was another day of feeling clever for me. Till my rehearsals, when I felt fat and it obliterated the clever feeling. I dislike the idea that other people can see this mass flabbing around, and judge me on it. Then, the other good thing was that my cast is pleasant. What else? I'm not as fat as I could be; but nor am I as thin as I could be. I kept within my calorie quota.
I was going to type up something I wrote, but it is too embarrassingly bad, even for this page. Instead. I shall write a descriptive something, because otherwise the number of posts will affect my triskaidekaphobia.
Tuesday 27 February 2007
Pretensions and extensions of reality
Damn. I just deleted this post. Suffice it to say that it rambled about consumption (1320 calories today) and that I need to eat breakfast.
I also spoke of her, how I felt slightly less idiotic today but found that her adorer is in a relationship, according to a web design. It is probably with her. This solidifies what I already suspected, long suspected. I hate that now it is real and that my paranoid ramblings were accurate. But we are friends, she laughs with me once more, we are no longer awkward and this platonic vein can run strong.
I spoke of an acquaintance I once shunned, and now he appears to shun me for my own pretentiousness. I am pretentious, I suppose.
I wrote of Tess Of D'Urbevilles. Interesting, that Alec bastardises her name, that old money name with his corrupted city new money, then visits the sin of the fathers on the innocent Tess, and takes her for his wife in the end. She kills him, but in killing him she brings about her own death. To wipe away the smirch of his new money, all must be obliterated. Tess is old money, vulgarized but nontheless innocent. A marxist reading is more interesting and less plaintive than the feminist, I sometimes find.
I also spoke of her, how I felt slightly less idiotic today but found that her adorer is in a relationship, according to a web design. It is probably with her. This solidifies what I already suspected, long suspected. I hate that now it is real and that my paranoid ramblings were accurate. But we are friends, she laughs with me once more, we are no longer awkward and this platonic vein can run strong.
I spoke of an acquaintance I once shunned, and now he appears to shun me for my own pretentiousness. I am pretentious, I suppose.
I wrote of Tess Of D'Urbevilles. Interesting, that Alec bastardises her name, that old money name with his corrupted city new money, then visits the sin of the fathers on the innocent Tess, and takes her for his wife in the end. She kills him, but in killing him she brings about her own death. To wipe away the smirch of his new money, all must be obliterated. Tess is old money, vulgarized but nontheless innocent. A marxist reading is more interesting and less plaintive than the feminist, I sometimes find.
Monday 26 February 2007
Beauty and the beast. Once, you said, looking into a mirror. And both knew which was which.
Calorific crap:
half a bowl of bran flakes and raisins (150)
a chicken thai wrap (250)
a vegetable stir fry (150)
sultanas (50)
two shortcake caramel squares (400)
meatballs and cranberry sauce and spinach (100g) (200)
I cannot shake the feeling that I ate something else, but I run through the contents of my cupboard in my mind and refute the evidence. Sultanas only it was. So today I am on target, and I have done the walk twice, which means I have created a deficit. I am still fat. I am still overweight, but now I know that I can, and I can tomorrow and the day after and the day after that as well.
My room is clear, though not clean, I need a dustpan and brush. I organised my draws tonight; they are neatly colour coded and folded. This is my favourite way for things to be.
I saw her again today. She does not want to spend excessive time with me because I bore her? Because I am not pretty? Not naturally pretty, that was what she said. Well, no. I twist. Her words were, "I like girls who don't know they're beautiful". Why must everyone subscribe to a rural idyll? What is it about artifice that is so ugly? If I do not look as I wish, why shouldn't I put on my ivory concealer and black mascara to make myself into what I wish? I draw on cheekbones and erase blemishes and spots. Artifice is what we are all doing all the time; if any of us cared to be truly au naturel, we'd stuff our faces and walk about in warm ponchos as well as never concealing our true feelings. But other's opinions count, nobody wants to be exiled from the protection of the herd, and they drive us towards appearing healthy, which is in nature's state. But e'en in that, there is some fakeness; it's this drive for dewy natural moisture that sends women to cosmetic surgeons begging to be facially poisoned and inexpressive so that they can look naturally young.
I suppose there is no difference in my application of makeup and these tautened and ageless creatures, only that I feel I am making up for myself and they for everyone else. Really, both categories are making up so that we can feel that what others believe of us is admiring. I, for example, would rather be the bone white rail thin girl that everyone worries about than the girl everyone thinks is immensley attractive, because I would know then that no matter what I would never be considered coarse. They want never to drop their presentation, never to be considered cluttered or lived in. There are no different motives, just differing perceptions of what beauty is.
I like my artifice. I need it. She, bombazine doll's intended, probably does not. Or she is too confident to need it. I wish I was naturally and innocently beautiful, but it is not the way. I must strive to be thin, strive for my face. It is naturally masculine, much to my malign. If I could choose any face, I would be Marchesa Luisa Casati, or Elyse Sewell, if I am forced to make my contemporary choices. I am obsessed with beauty; because if I can blame my face, the rest of me is exempt? No, not at all. I pause from a tirade on my countenance and move onwards to my behaviour, my acting skills, my intelligence; all reason enough for her not to love me. When I know that, put parsimoniously, she never was in love with me and that is all.
half a bowl of bran flakes and raisins (150)
a chicken thai wrap (250)
a vegetable stir fry (150)
sultanas (50)
two shortcake caramel squares (400)
meatballs and cranberry sauce and spinach (100g) (200)
I cannot shake the feeling that I ate something else, but I run through the contents of my cupboard in my mind and refute the evidence. Sultanas only it was. So today I am on target, and I have done the walk twice, which means I have created a deficit. I am still fat. I am still overweight, but now I know that I can, and I can tomorrow and the day after and the day after that as well.
My room is clear, though not clean, I need a dustpan and brush. I organised my draws tonight; they are neatly colour coded and folded. This is my favourite way for things to be.
I saw her again today. She does not want to spend excessive time with me because I bore her? Because I am not pretty? Not naturally pretty, that was what she said. Well, no. I twist. Her words were, "I like girls who don't know they're beautiful". Why must everyone subscribe to a rural idyll? What is it about artifice that is so ugly? If I do not look as I wish, why shouldn't I put on my ivory concealer and black mascara to make myself into what I wish? I draw on cheekbones and erase blemishes and spots. Artifice is what we are all doing all the time; if any of us cared to be truly au naturel, we'd stuff our faces and walk about in warm ponchos as well as never concealing our true feelings. But other's opinions count, nobody wants to be exiled from the protection of the herd, and they drive us towards appearing healthy, which is in nature's state. But e'en in that, there is some fakeness; it's this drive for dewy natural moisture that sends women to cosmetic surgeons begging to be facially poisoned and inexpressive so that they can look naturally young.
I suppose there is no difference in my application of makeup and these tautened and ageless creatures, only that I feel I am making up for myself and they for everyone else. Really, both categories are making up so that we can feel that what others believe of us is admiring. I, for example, would rather be the bone white rail thin girl that everyone worries about than the girl everyone thinks is immensley attractive, because I would know then that no matter what I would never be considered coarse. They want never to drop their presentation, never to be considered cluttered or lived in. There are no different motives, just differing perceptions of what beauty is.
I like my artifice. I need it. She, bombazine doll's intended, probably does not. Or she is too confident to need it. I wish I was naturally and innocently beautiful, but it is not the way. I must strive to be thin, strive for my face. It is naturally masculine, much to my malign. If I could choose any face, I would be Marchesa Luisa Casati, or Elyse Sewell, if I am forced to make my contemporary choices. I am obsessed with beauty; because if I can blame my face, the rest of me is exempt? No, not at all. I pause from a tirade on my countenance and move onwards to my behaviour, my acting skills, my intelligence; all reason enough for her not to love me. When I know that, put parsimoniously, she never was in love with me and that is all.
Wednesday 21 February 2007
Am I too dirty, am I too flirty, do I not like what you like?
Nutrition based waste of space:
tortellini and tomato puree (400)
sultanas (50)
salmon, yoghurt and spinach on a slice of toast (400)
sultanas (50)
an options hot chocolate (40)
porridge, sultanas, yoghurt. (400)
Ok. So 1340. If it goes down a little bit every day, that's good. I can see that I need more fruit, but it seems pointless to buy it when I won't be here the day after tomorrow.
Scoprophilic accounts.
I learnt that word the other day. It means to derive pleasure from looking. We're all scoprophiliacs, unless you're blind.
I thought of the start of a song about a girl who wants to become a page three girl today:
Plain Jane on a quest for fame
She'd already be rich, but the mirror disdains
So she slathers on tan and begins the refrain
Make up, make out, make every day the same.
Stumbling out of a hackney on a friday night
Hacks write that she's a total sight
But nothing compares to the ubiquitous fright
Of the line, "you're too old love, no, not tonight".
And maybe she resembles love's young dream
Though in real life she'd make you want to scream
Looks more like a businessman in drag
A good little sell, a clapped out old slag.
If you're going into the vending of flesh
Why contemplate a philosophical mess?
You'll earn more easier lying on your back
Than posing vacuously and taking the rap.
I don't know about that... I think it could be better. It's a bit Tess Of D'Urbervilles inspired. Not that she ever ran off and became a page three girl. Tess is fairly self-flagellating, but I suppose that's what you get when your parents are alcoholics. And you're a product of a chauvinist society, which also happens to be class ridden. She had the odds stacked against her from the start. It was always to be, Hardy says. Show me the child at seven, I'll show you a man, or so the saying goes.
I had a dilemma today over whether to put Beth Ditto on my wall. I think she's fantastic, and I really like her views; however, I'm not so enamoured with her music. The only fatties on my walls at the moment are Stephen Fry and two of myself. Helen Mirren, playing Shakespeare's Cleopatra (a role I covet) is by no means fat, but her BMI is normal, I'd say. Beth Ditto would even out my wall's weight complex. But I didn't put her up, even so. She wasn't wearing amazing clothes, which is atypical; when she is, she's going up there. My own wishes are refracted back at me all day. And I won't ever measure up. My felt tips are running out, and consequently all the things I draw have to have blue hair. Today has been a boring day.
I like her and I like him. My bombazine doll is off elsewhere, obviously, as she was never really mine. She loves someone else and never loved me. That is not fine. I wish I knew for certain; I am roughly ninety percent sure. The girl she is in love with (the one I think she is in love with, for all I know it could be someone else. Not me) is dark haired and fiery eyed, self confident, witty, they click. I am jealous beyond belief. It was something she said a while ago, "I love it when people don't know they're beautiful". Well, that would be this girl. She's what you'd call handsome, or beautiful. She's tall, and maybe fatter than me. Is she? See, I know it's ridiculous comparing myself but I can almost feel I've won. I can't win anywhere else, you see. She's got that list of complementary adjectives and I have got a mannish physique and a diminished intellect.
He is mine; I love the feeling with men that you have them completely in your thrall. I did get a little tingle with him. He's not different; I know I've got the upper hand. With her it was scary, I felt like she knew everything, as if I couldn't hide from her laser gaze. I know that I can unveil myself to him sheet by sheet; I feel less embarrassed by sex because he doesn't know anything else about me, if that makes sense. I can pretend to be clever, or learned, or anything I want. Self-confident. Witholding information is where I draw my power from, which makes the reader of this blog deific. I like him. I wish I had a bit more time to develop a craving for him. Maybe it will come. Maybe not. Maybe I should find someone else. I'll give it six weeks.
tortellini and tomato puree (400)
sultanas (50)
salmon, yoghurt and spinach on a slice of toast (400)
sultanas (50)
an options hot chocolate (40)
porridge, sultanas, yoghurt. (400)
Ok. So 1340. If it goes down a little bit every day, that's good. I can see that I need more fruit, but it seems pointless to buy it when I won't be here the day after tomorrow.
Scoprophilic accounts.
I learnt that word the other day. It means to derive pleasure from looking. We're all scoprophiliacs, unless you're blind.
I thought of the start of a song about a girl who wants to become a page three girl today:
Plain Jane on a quest for fame
She'd already be rich, but the mirror disdains
So she slathers on tan and begins the refrain
Make up, make out, make every day the same.
Stumbling out of a hackney on a friday night
Hacks write that she's a total sight
But nothing compares to the ubiquitous fright
Of the line, "you're too old love, no, not tonight".
And maybe she resembles love's young dream
Though in real life she'd make you want to scream
Looks more like a businessman in drag
A good little sell, a clapped out old slag.
If you're going into the vending of flesh
Why contemplate a philosophical mess?
You'll earn more easier lying on your back
Than posing vacuously and taking the rap.
I don't know about that... I think it could be better. It's a bit Tess Of D'Urbervilles inspired. Not that she ever ran off and became a page three girl. Tess is fairly self-flagellating, but I suppose that's what you get when your parents are alcoholics. And you're a product of a chauvinist society, which also happens to be class ridden. She had the odds stacked against her from the start. It was always to be, Hardy says. Show me the child at seven, I'll show you a man, or so the saying goes.
I had a dilemma today over whether to put Beth Ditto on my wall. I think she's fantastic, and I really like her views; however, I'm not so enamoured with her music. The only fatties on my walls at the moment are Stephen Fry and two of myself. Helen Mirren, playing Shakespeare's Cleopatra (a role I covet) is by no means fat, but her BMI is normal, I'd say. Beth Ditto would even out my wall's weight complex. But I didn't put her up, even so. She wasn't wearing amazing clothes, which is atypical; when she is, she's going up there. My own wishes are refracted back at me all day. And I won't ever measure up. My felt tips are running out, and consequently all the things I draw have to have blue hair. Today has been a boring day.
I like her and I like him. My bombazine doll is off elsewhere, obviously, as she was never really mine. She loves someone else and never loved me. That is not fine. I wish I knew for certain; I am roughly ninety percent sure. The girl she is in love with (the one I think she is in love with, for all I know it could be someone else. Not me) is dark haired and fiery eyed, self confident, witty, they click. I am jealous beyond belief. It was something she said a while ago, "I love it when people don't know they're beautiful". Well, that would be this girl. She's what you'd call handsome, or beautiful. She's tall, and maybe fatter than me. Is she? See, I know it's ridiculous comparing myself but I can almost feel I've won. I can't win anywhere else, you see. She's got that list of complementary adjectives and I have got a mannish physique and a diminished intellect.
He is mine; I love the feeling with men that you have them completely in your thrall. I did get a little tingle with him. He's not different; I know I've got the upper hand. With her it was scary, I felt like she knew everything, as if I couldn't hide from her laser gaze. I know that I can unveil myself to him sheet by sheet; I feel less embarrassed by sex because he doesn't know anything else about me, if that makes sense. I can pretend to be clever, or learned, or anything I want. Self-confident. Witholding information is where I draw my power from, which makes the reader of this blog deific. I like him. I wish I had a bit more time to develop a craving for him. Maybe it will come. Maybe not. Maybe I should find someone else. I'll give it six weeks.
Monday 19 February 2007
Plain Jane and a quest for fame.
Today's eating:
a cookie (200)
a cup of broccoli and stilton soup and a bread roll (200)
an apple (40)
a pitta bread with cheese and tomato puree (200)
4 pieces of garlic bread (200)
brie (100)
sultanas (100)
cake we made. (400)
Ok. If this works out right, I have ate 1400 calories today. I hope. Which is bad, but at least a decrease; I also went on a walk. I went to a friend's and we baked cake and took it to see an Inconvenient truth, which emphasised what I've known for a long time, namely that we should all stop being so materialistic. We really enjoyed baking together and distributing the contents of our tin, it was lovely. Then again, I enjoy dressing a certain way, and reading; those are material, are they not?
However, I dress as I like, not as others want me to dress. I do not suffer from affluenza. I would like to learn how to sew all of my clothes.
I think... I don't know. I'm sort-of seeing someone. I definitely like him as a friend, but I usually build up to wanting someone then we have the awkward phase of being with each other before it completely destroys our friendship; I've never exactly been friends with him, but I like him. I stayed at his house one night; he isn't amazing sexually but men can be taught, surely? I don't know why they think rubbing away down there like they're trying to get a stain out is sexy. It just chafes, I know men like it firm and fast, they need to see that women don't. I quite like him, I think. Time will tell. I'm still pulling a little bit to her; I don't want this one to be a rebound because I live close to him and I don't like to shit where I eat, so to speak.
And she is so like the rose
Whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows
With dusky petals and dried out stalks
Crumbling husks where memories walk.
I think this might be the poem. I'm not sure. I wish I knew.
I contemplated putting a picture of myself in a group of people on this blog, and asking if readers could identify me in the group. I decided not to because I'm terrified someone might see it and realise who I am, in reality. I'd be interested, though, to know if my writing correlates with my appearance; on this note, I saw a preview for a Jane Austen film. I detest Jane Austen and her limited social scenery, snobbery and repetitive chick lit drivel, but she did write books that are widely acclaimed. She was a plain spinster, and who should be playing her but Anne Hathaway, a dewy young snowdrop as opposed to a crabbit piece of tumbleweed that they should have cast. Why does this always happen; the ugly or plain woman is left with nothing to aspire to. Not that I expect the film to bear any resemblance to her actual life, but it would be lovely if, for a moment, hollywood stopped churning out bland homogenised beauties and pretended they were either plain or quirky.
a cookie (200)
a cup of broccoli and stilton soup and a bread roll (200)
an apple (40)
a pitta bread with cheese and tomato puree (200)
4 pieces of garlic bread (200)
brie (100)
sultanas (100)
cake we made. (400)
Ok. If this works out right, I have ate 1400 calories today. I hope. Which is bad, but at least a decrease; I also went on a walk. I went to a friend's and we baked cake and took it to see an Inconvenient truth, which emphasised what I've known for a long time, namely that we should all stop being so materialistic. We really enjoyed baking together and distributing the contents of our tin, it was lovely. Then again, I enjoy dressing a certain way, and reading; those are material, are they not?
However, I dress as I like, not as others want me to dress. I do not suffer from affluenza. I would like to learn how to sew all of my clothes.
I think... I don't know. I'm sort-of seeing someone. I definitely like him as a friend, but I usually build up to wanting someone then we have the awkward phase of being with each other before it completely destroys our friendship; I've never exactly been friends with him, but I like him. I stayed at his house one night; he isn't amazing sexually but men can be taught, surely? I don't know why they think rubbing away down there like they're trying to get a stain out is sexy. It just chafes, I know men like it firm and fast, they need to see that women don't. I quite like him, I think. Time will tell. I'm still pulling a little bit to her; I don't want this one to be a rebound because I live close to him and I don't like to shit where I eat, so to speak.
And she is so like the rose
Whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows
With dusky petals and dried out stalks
Crumbling husks where memories walk.
I think this might be the poem. I'm not sure. I wish I knew.
I contemplated putting a picture of myself in a group of people on this blog, and asking if readers could identify me in the group. I decided not to because I'm terrified someone might see it and realise who I am, in reality. I'd be interested, though, to know if my writing correlates with my appearance; on this note, I saw a preview for a Jane Austen film. I detest Jane Austen and her limited social scenery, snobbery and repetitive chick lit drivel, but she did write books that are widely acclaimed. She was a plain spinster, and who should be playing her but Anne Hathaway, a dewy young snowdrop as opposed to a crabbit piece of tumbleweed that they should have cast. Why does this always happen; the ugly or plain woman is left with nothing to aspire to. Not that I expect the film to bear any resemblance to her actual life, but it would be lovely if, for a moment, hollywood stopped churning out bland homogenised beauties and pretended they were either plain or quirky.
Sunday 18 February 2007
Shoddy poetic rambles.
Consumptive recording:
2.5 raisin and oatmeal cookies 400
tortellini and pesto 500
two tangerines 40
four slices of pizza (margherita) 500
sultanas 100
options hot chocolate 40
bread (50)
1640. This would have been better, but there was a powercut, forcing me into eating takeaway. Well, no force was involved, but I reasoned that it was better to eat than not to eat... I suppose this is what all fatties say to justify themselves. Tomorrow I will do better. I am young, I had better do this whilst I still can.
I need to stop feeling quite so stupid about myself. Bad marks do not stupidity make. Besides which, feeling dim only makes me act so.
I loved our powercut. Rules were suspended (oh, how liminal) and we sat around and played consequences, which is one of my favourite games. We were all in one room, around a plate of tealights, and it was lovely. I'm not saying that electricity brings evils etcetera, but I can certainly see what the Amish are aiming for (well, they don't go in much for the jollity, but I definitely felt that we bonded). Then my other friends came and we went out. I hope my housemates understand that I like them every bit as much as my other friends; they are like my family that I always come back to. My other friends are very high octane; my housemates are simply very easy to be with. Actually, my friends are easy to be with as well; I don't know, it's different. Suffice it to say that I like them both in different ways.
I want to know where this is from:
And she is so like the rose,
whose beauty remains though the red bloom goes.
The rhyme isn't quite right in it, but I know that I've heard it somewhere; maybe those aren't the exact words. I want to say, "though the bloom fades", but that wouldn't fit. Maybe, "whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows"?
I wrote some shoddy poetry which I may later retract:
Shakespeare borrowing; shamelessly unconnected
Ah, my salad days
Nutrition based
A worrying waste
I sit upon a burnished throne
Or hop forty paces through
A market place.
Memories and humdrum plastic
And neon lights, of navigating
Across seas of whalebone white
Nightly, noone else in sight
A token trip for we two
Alas, Egypt, I am dying
I am left to sail, decked by pearls
Whilst elsewhere, another land
Your banner unfurls.
The moonlight ran in rivulets, disdaining your patin shoulder. You told me I was beautiful. I am paltry, pale, plain; not beautiful. My workings show in the ugly tendons of my neck, they are so easy to read. No mystery. Broad, bold, blue veined but never that. Never beautiful. Yet, you cared enough to lie and tell me that I was, because you could see that it mattered to me.
Doormats get torn with tread and grow thin
Noone notices 'till the mud loses grip
Then it's time to get a new one in
The old one laid down under odd ends and things.
2.5 raisin and oatmeal cookies 400
tortellini and pesto 500
two tangerines 40
four slices of pizza (margherita) 500
sultanas 100
options hot chocolate 40
bread (50)
1640. This would have been better, but there was a powercut, forcing me into eating takeaway. Well, no force was involved, but I reasoned that it was better to eat than not to eat... I suppose this is what all fatties say to justify themselves. Tomorrow I will do better. I am young, I had better do this whilst I still can.
I need to stop feeling quite so stupid about myself. Bad marks do not stupidity make. Besides which, feeling dim only makes me act so.
I loved our powercut. Rules were suspended (oh, how liminal) and we sat around and played consequences, which is one of my favourite games. We were all in one room, around a plate of tealights, and it was lovely. I'm not saying that electricity brings evils etcetera, but I can certainly see what the Amish are aiming for (well, they don't go in much for the jollity, but I definitely felt that we bonded). Then my other friends came and we went out. I hope my housemates understand that I like them every bit as much as my other friends; they are like my family that I always come back to. My other friends are very high octane; my housemates are simply very easy to be with. Actually, my friends are easy to be with as well; I don't know, it's different. Suffice it to say that I like them both in different ways.
I want to know where this is from:
And she is so like the rose,
whose beauty remains though the red bloom goes.
The rhyme isn't quite right in it, but I know that I've heard it somewhere; maybe those aren't the exact words. I want to say, "though the bloom fades", but that wouldn't fit. Maybe, "whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows"?
I wrote some shoddy poetry which I may later retract:
Shakespeare borrowing; shamelessly unconnected
Ah, my salad days
Nutrition based
A worrying waste
I sit upon a burnished throne
Or hop forty paces through
A market place.
Memories and humdrum plastic
And neon lights, of navigating
Across seas of whalebone white
Nightly, noone else in sight
A token trip for we two
Alas, Egypt, I am dying
I am left to sail, decked by pearls
Whilst elsewhere, another land
Your banner unfurls.
The moonlight ran in rivulets, disdaining your patin shoulder. You told me I was beautiful. I am paltry, pale, plain; not beautiful. My workings show in the ugly tendons of my neck, they are so easy to read. No mystery. Broad, bold, blue veined but never that. Never beautiful. Yet, you cared enough to lie and tell me that I was, because you could see that it mattered to me.
Loved me sicklier than death
Loved ribs and bones and concave chest
Loved a selfish, egocentric continuous whine
Till I find
I'm none so terrible
But you're too kind.
Doormats get torn with tread and grow thin
Noone notices 'till the mud loses grip
Then it's time to get a new one in
The old one laid down under odd ends and things.
Thursday 15 February 2007
Solution to world Hunger, fig. one.
Eating's been really bad these past few days. I seem to be hellbent on consuming everything in sight, like the fatty I am. Today's count is 1750. Written elsewhere.
Today in a shop, purchasing food, an acquaintance (well, probably a friend but I'm none so keen on her. She can be OK) asked us how many calories we thought were in a packet of pecan nuts covered in chocolate. She said 700. She's the only girl in my group of friends that obsessively counts calories (well, except for me, but I clam up when they're discussed for reasons I shall expound later). Anyway, the upshot of this was that I suggested, profit notwithstanding, that we should ship 90 percent of chocolate etc. to Africa, or malnutrition hotspots to combat obesity. Or even just put pictures of starving kids next to our rationed chocolate supplies. I know that if people are suffering malnutrition there has to be a gradual refeeding process, but I really don't see why, once that's been accomplished, we can't give away a bit of chocolate and other nutrient rich foods. How much do I need calorific content as opposed to those on the brink of starvation? I know profit would be a problem; I thought this could be solved by all the money yummy mummies (isn't that a disgusting epithet?) and vain yuppie sloanes spend on going to the gym, or a personal trainer, being given to chocolate companies to remove the temptation; they'd get slimmer, because of less chocolate being around. Say you live in Hemel Hempstead, for a fixed fee you can get the chocolate taken out of your local newsagent and shipped off to Africa; you have to walk further to get the goods. Better still, confiscate cars as well and let everyone bike or take public transport. I know this is hard on those who posess a modicum of willpower, but they don't particularly need chocolate either.
Earlier I said I don't involve myself in calorific discussions. I don't want to be seen as a boring girl that can only discuss calories, first and foremost; I fear if I were to admit my quirk, then the floodgates would open and I'd never shut my mouth. Another reason is my opinion of this particular acquaintance; she obviously used to be very thin. She's very involved in everything, theatre, magazine editing, god knows what else, but I get the impression that she doesn't enjoy herself doing it; she does it more so that she can say she's involved. If I think of how I feel when I act; it just takes away my desire to do anything else, when I'm absorbed in it- I don't want to eat, I get the glim in my eyes, it's like a flash of freedom, like doing a cartwheel. I think she doesn't get that from what she does.
She calorie counts and strives, yet she's about a size 14 (UK) I'd say, and she's around 5 feet four tall. In fairness, she has got a large chest, which carries less stigma. I think, every time she discusses calories, that if she cares so very much she would surely be thinner? I don't talk about my obsession because I don't feel that people will take me seriously- they'd think, well maybe you think about it but you're really quite fat; only thin girls think about calories. You, therefore, must think you are thin and want us all to tell you you are. I don't want people to think I think I'm something I'm not. This makes very little sense. There's also the other aspect of public self-hate and emotional whining, which I despise.
Sunday 11 February 2007
Queen Adreena aren't so hot.
Ok.
2 slices of bread fried with one egg- (320)
a brownie (200)
tuna pasta and broccoli (400)
a packet of chocolate buttons (70g) (340)
an apple (40)
six seventy, six forty, twelve, eleven, adds to 1310. Not too bad I suppose, if I don't eat anything else... did I eat a biscuit? No I don't think I did. It's not as bad as I thought, anyway. I shouldn't buy chocolate, it's far too dangerous. I'll probably eat more, fatty that I am.
I keep seeing photos of myself and looking horrendously fat. Broad, double chinned... worse even than the tyrant mirror. I hate these photographs. All photographs. There were some taken of our performance, that our lighting director said I look good in; this is the worst thing yet, as if these are pictures of me looking good what must I look like when I look bad? There are all these slim, willowy perfect bodies; and then mine, looking as if it'll crush the chair I'm perched on. Lots of people that came to the Vagina Monologues commented that we were all very attractive; I suppose it's wrong to say "eleven of you are really attractive; that one capsizing on the tiny chair at the back wasn't too hot". I just want some flattering photos; but they'll never be taken, unless I swap bodies with someone. So instead, I'll stick to the regime.
Now that my drivel is over.
Hm. I feel I've lost my spark.
I am going to be in Chekov's the Seagull as Polina... whilst I am very happy to have the part, I desperately want to know if I was first choice for it or not. Because if I'm not, I'd want to know about it. Just so I know, where I rate in the grand scheme of things; but I can't ask my director. He'll think all my ideas about theatre being up itself are completely hypocritical if I ask such a thing.
I miss her. She said she was coming to see the Vagina Monologues; I was hoping she'd at least do that. She came in too late to see my monologue at the back and left soon after. She hates me. I want to text her with something flippant to let her know we're still OK. But I can't because she obviously wants nothing to do with me. So I should just leave it. And even if she does want something to do with me, I should have higher self esteem than to pander to someone that leaves me on a cliff edge every time and doesn't tell me why they want to stop seeing me really... though she's got issues of her own, and I'm not exactly blameless, snooping around like an internet stalker. I am so insecure and stupid. It could be that she still wouldn't mind me around and feels exactly the same way, but I doubt this. I want the old days back, before everything got too complicated. I want to look like a pretty little doll, so that I can be insecure and stupid but at least not look so hideous.
I met a guy at a party the other day I considered having sex with, just because I could. I know him just enough to have sex, just enough for it not to be embarassing because I don't know him that well and could avoid seeing him again. I'd be curious to have sex with him; he's doing an MA, he's clever enough. Hmmm. I'll see how it goes.
Wednesday 7 February 2007
Mollusc.
I wrote a big entry the other day, but was thwarted at the last minute by my computer. Ah well. All I need, for reference, is to know it was emo drivel (surprise surprise), four good points about myself (of the ilk, "1. I've got nice handwriting"). And that I ate under 1300 for the past few days. Today I ate:
A caramel square (200)
pic n mix (200)
chips (300)
chocolate and cream (100)
an apple (40)
a vegetable biryani (500)
some ice cream (100)
a pint of cobra beer
so at least about 1600. Ah well, won't happen again for a while. I've walked a bit too. I also had my first run of my play, which went ok aside from flubbing my lines at the end, which made me feel a complete knob. And the audience didn't laugh at all, which is ok for my monologue as it's quite tragic, but the rest of the cast could have done with a few laughs. Ah well. We went for curry after and I am very tired. I want to reread 1984.
My housemates are off partying; I wish I was. I can't believe my writing is so shoddy, I'm not even drunk.
I had a bit of interaction with her today; she's ill (just flu) and didn't want to see me. She called me darling, which isn't a good sign; darling is like babe, the word you use for people you don't really care about or can't stand. It is for her, I've seen her use it apologetically on people she hates. Anyway, she's been saying she'd like to have tea with me for a while now; and I want to have tea with her, but we haven't done it, and she keeps calling me darling... so I don't think she does want to have tea. I think she's trying to edge out of our friendship and I've been too blind to see it.
A niche in the cold, hard rock world to lay my head upon... Blanche said, in Streetcar Named Desire. That's what she needed. Well, I am no delicate butterfly, no moth. I'm not even a caterpillar with potential. I'm a snail; I'm boring to look at, I store everything inside, I'm slow, I'm strange looking, I get stepped on, everything sticks to me and I keep all my woes fixed on my back to stop things getting through to the soft slime underneath; but everyone knows a good hard stamp will smash me forever. A snail's not as lovely a metaphor as a pretty, fluttering butterfly, is it? Though they're both vulnerable. Anyway, Blanche Dubois. A lot of luck she had. Tenessee as well; if you live your life in a haze of drugs and shortly after top yourself, it can't be much of a riot you're having can it?
A caramel square (200)
pic n mix (200)
chips (300)
chocolate and cream (100)
an apple (40)
a vegetable biryani (500)
some ice cream (100)
a pint of cobra beer
so at least about 1600. Ah well, won't happen again for a while. I've walked a bit too. I also had my first run of my play, which went ok aside from flubbing my lines at the end, which made me feel a complete knob. And the audience didn't laugh at all, which is ok for my monologue as it's quite tragic, but the rest of the cast could have done with a few laughs. Ah well. We went for curry after and I am very tired. I want to reread 1984.
My housemates are off partying; I wish I was. I can't believe my writing is so shoddy, I'm not even drunk.
I had a bit of interaction with her today; she's ill (just flu) and didn't want to see me. She called me darling, which isn't a good sign; darling is like babe, the word you use for people you don't really care about or can't stand. It is for her, I've seen her use it apologetically on people she hates. Anyway, she's been saying she'd like to have tea with me for a while now; and I want to have tea with her, but we haven't done it, and she keeps calling me darling... so I don't think she does want to have tea. I think she's trying to edge out of our friendship and I've been too blind to see it.
A niche in the cold, hard rock world to lay my head upon... Blanche said, in Streetcar Named Desire. That's what she needed. Well, I am no delicate butterfly, no moth. I'm not even a caterpillar with potential. I'm a snail; I'm boring to look at, I store everything inside, I'm slow, I'm strange looking, I get stepped on, everything sticks to me and I keep all my woes fixed on my back to stop things getting through to the soft slime underneath; but everyone knows a good hard stamp will smash me forever. A snail's not as lovely a metaphor as a pretty, fluttering butterfly, is it? Though they're both vulnerable. Anyway, Blanche Dubois. A lot of luck she had. Tenessee as well; if you live your life in a haze of drugs and shortly after top yourself, it can't be much of a riot you're having can it?
Sunday 4 February 2007
Why I want to be thin.
I will firstly detail how thin I want to be; I would like to weigh 112 pounds. This is eight stones. I am five feet eight tall. I currently weigh 148 pounds, or ten and a half stone, the last time I checked. I tend to rely on measurements and the way my clothes fit. I would like to be a size six or eight as opposed to the ten or (usually) twelve I am at the moment.
Other people would probably say I would look sickly at this weight; that is their opinion. I want to weigh that much because:
1. I haven't got much of a chest. This may seem a strange reason to want to weigh less; the thing is, without a chest the rest of me looks disproportionate. I am a pear shape. My decollete is comparatively bony.
2. I am generally bony with a large bone structure, which makes flab ten times worse when it covers large bones; you just get large, as opposed to large bones. If I was thinner, I'd just look toned.
3. This follows on from the bone structure point; I'm manly and broad enough, I don't need to be fat to consolidate that image.
4. I'd rather appear sylph like than clumpy. That said, I never want to be one of those girls that whines about food; this is why everything I think about food is expressed here. I never speak to anyone about food, because I want to convey the image that calorie counting is incredibly disinteresting to me. I am no woolly knit wearer.
5. The adjective sepulchral can only apply to thin women.
6. I would feel more confident. A cliche, but how true it rings.
7. I don't want pockets of fat either side of my waistband. I want to discard that excess and throw it away; I do not live an excessive lifestyle, my approach is minimalist, I would prefer to be regarded as a conoisseur of art and people than one of food and sedentary activity. The first two fill me up.
8. People remark on slimness; my family notices, and worries. Strangers class you with the thin girls. I don't feel as if I should be asking permission to eat when they're all wanting me to anyway.
9. Clothes that I want to wear suit slim girls. High necks, armless short dresses and summer just round the corner.
10. I want that air of surprise. That isn't the right idiom. I mean, "yes, she beat me at arm wrestling though she doesn't look like she could lift a pin". That sort of thing.
There are more I can't think of now. I can reach these by exercising more. I will start to exercise three times a week. I will also eat five fruits and vegetables a day.
Other people would probably say I would look sickly at this weight; that is their opinion. I want to weigh that much because:
1. I haven't got much of a chest. This may seem a strange reason to want to weigh less; the thing is, without a chest the rest of me looks disproportionate. I am a pear shape. My decollete is comparatively bony.
2. I am generally bony with a large bone structure, which makes flab ten times worse when it covers large bones; you just get large, as opposed to large bones. If I was thinner, I'd just look toned.
3. This follows on from the bone structure point; I'm manly and broad enough, I don't need to be fat to consolidate that image.
4. I'd rather appear sylph like than clumpy. That said, I never want to be one of those girls that whines about food; this is why everything I think about food is expressed here. I never speak to anyone about food, because I want to convey the image that calorie counting is incredibly disinteresting to me. I am no woolly knit wearer.
5. The adjective sepulchral can only apply to thin women.
6. I would feel more confident. A cliche, but how true it rings.
7. I don't want pockets of fat either side of my waistband. I want to discard that excess and throw it away; I do not live an excessive lifestyle, my approach is minimalist, I would prefer to be regarded as a conoisseur of art and people than one of food and sedentary activity. The first two fill me up.
8. People remark on slimness; my family notices, and worries. Strangers class you with the thin girls. I don't feel as if I should be asking permission to eat when they're all wanting me to anyway.
9. Clothes that I want to wear suit slim girls. High necks, armless short dresses and summer just round the corner.
10. I want that air of surprise. That isn't the right idiom. I mean, "yes, she beat me at arm wrestling though she doesn't look like she could lift a pin". That sort of thing.
There are more I can't think of now. I can reach these by exercising more. I will start to exercise three times a week. I will also eat five fruits and vegetables a day.
Scale to skin is all too few, to keep me from you.
Mange tout:
tortellini (325)
1/4 an eccles cake (75)
an apple (40)
a brownie (400)
scotch broth (8o)
1.5 slices of white bread (84 cals a slice) (120)
an eccles cake (300)
options hot chocolate (60)
2 biscuits (50)
dates
1410. And dates; which are about 100 calories. So 1500. And I thought I'd done so well today. Ha. Ah well, always tomorrow.
I felt fluey today and yesterday. I had the sensation you get, when you feel like your skin's got pins and needles but without the stab, almost as if it's not my own. It makes getting dressed or changing position feel strange. I had the start of a headache, and the fuzz feeling. Because I don't ever get ill, my reaction to these symptoms was hyperbolic; I first suspected a case of bird flu, shortly afterwards tending to a self diagnosis of meningitis, or a light case of pleurisy or bronchitis. As my symptoms have subsided, and were in fact none so bad, I decide that instead I simply had a slight infection. Today I've been coughing up phglem, which I find bizarrely cathartic considering my stance on vomiting. It's a relief to see the sodding microbes that plague you leave your body, after much effort and hacking away on your part, in a globular yellow stream. It's also good to feel your throat briefly cleared. Anyway, possibly because of the phlegm coughing, or maybe because I was offered two parts in my amateur theatre group (yes, it is amateur, and that was a brag that there will be more of later) I felt well enough to resume my usual skip to rehersals today. Albeit wheezing and bent double with the cough. I also reek of sweat; this could be because I haven't showered today, or because the disease is fleeing my corpus. Either way, I offend myself with my own reek. My hair is greasy, I haven't bothered with makeup; I am not attractive.
I need to do washing up before my housemates grow exasperated with my pile of pots, pans and plates. I usually keep on top of it, but I've been busy; too busy for general hygiene, it would appear.
I was offered a part in Fear and Misery in The Third Reich (Brecht) and The Seagull (Chekov). I chose Polina in the Chekov. I only pertain to a hazy idea of what such a role entails; it was more a process of elimination. The Brecht play would have offered a bigger role, I think, but it seems very conscious theatre; the sort of theatre that people become involved in to get their message across, break taboos, yeah, 'cos there's all this shit goin' on in the world we can change via interpretative dance.... whilst I love to move, I haven't got much faith in the directors. Chekov's will be amazing, I know. And that will reflect well on me; all actions are ultimately narcissistic. One girl that is in the Vagina Monologues didn't get a part, though she got lots of recalls; I was surprised. She's not like posersloane; she's pretty, slim, small, an amazing actress, but most importantly, very easy to get on with, interesting and very well known within the theatre. I'd have thought people would have seen her recall and taken her straight away. But it seems she was too good at too many parts. I don't know why she didn't get a part; it does seem strange that she wouldn't.
Ok. Tomorrow I will have my usual calorific breakfast, then for lunch something light in calories such as a sandwich, then my scotch broth for dinner. I will buy some fruit and veg. If I follow this, it leaves me a fair few calories to play around with. I know this is a ridiculous thing to rule my life by.
tortellini (325)
1/4 an eccles cake (75)
an apple (40)
a brownie (400)
scotch broth (8o)
1.5 slices of white bread (84 cals a slice) (120)
an eccles cake (300)
options hot chocolate (60)
2 biscuits (50)
dates
1410. And dates; which are about 100 calories. So 1500. And I thought I'd done so well today. Ha. Ah well, always tomorrow.
I felt fluey today and yesterday. I had the sensation you get, when you feel like your skin's got pins and needles but without the stab, almost as if it's not my own. It makes getting dressed or changing position feel strange. I had the start of a headache, and the fuzz feeling. Because I don't ever get ill, my reaction to these symptoms was hyperbolic; I first suspected a case of bird flu, shortly afterwards tending to a self diagnosis of meningitis, or a light case of pleurisy or bronchitis. As my symptoms have subsided, and were in fact none so bad, I decide that instead I simply had a slight infection. Today I've been coughing up phglem, which I find bizarrely cathartic considering my stance on vomiting. It's a relief to see the sodding microbes that plague you leave your body, after much effort and hacking away on your part, in a globular yellow stream. It's also good to feel your throat briefly cleared. Anyway, possibly because of the phlegm coughing, or maybe because I was offered two parts in my amateur theatre group (yes, it is amateur, and that was a brag that there will be more of later) I felt well enough to resume my usual skip to rehersals today. Albeit wheezing and bent double with the cough. I also reek of sweat; this could be because I haven't showered today, or because the disease is fleeing my corpus. Either way, I offend myself with my own reek. My hair is greasy, I haven't bothered with makeup; I am not attractive.
I need to do washing up before my housemates grow exasperated with my pile of pots, pans and plates. I usually keep on top of it, but I've been busy; too busy for general hygiene, it would appear.
I was offered a part in Fear and Misery in The Third Reich (Brecht) and The Seagull (Chekov). I chose Polina in the Chekov. I only pertain to a hazy idea of what such a role entails; it was more a process of elimination. The Brecht play would have offered a bigger role, I think, but it seems very conscious theatre; the sort of theatre that people become involved in to get their message across, break taboos, yeah, 'cos there's all this shit goin' on in the world we can change via interpretative dance.... whilst I love to move, I haven't got much faith in the directors. Chekov's will be amazing, I know. And that will reflect well on me; all actions are ultimately narcissistic. One girl that is in the Vagina Monologues didn't get a part, though she got lots of recalls; I was surprised. She's not like posersloane; she's pretty, slim, small, an amazing actress, but most importantly, very easy to get on with, interesting and very well known within the theatre. I'd have thought people would have seen her recall and taken her straight away. But it seems she was too good at too many parts. I don't know why she didn't get a part; it does seem strange that she wouldn't.
Ok. Tomorrow I will have my usual calorific breakfast, then for lunch something light in calories such as a sandwich, then my scotch broth for dinner. I will buy some fruit and veg. If I follow this, it leaves me a fair few calories to play around with. I know this is a ridiculous thing to rule my life by.
Friday 2 February 2007
I see the sun in the trees, and I feel the psychedelic breeze.
Eating today:
porridge with dates and yoghurt-400
dates-20
two prawn crackers-10
two biscuits-60
a tex mex chicken wrap-400
a cookie (date and ginger)-200
a vegetable stir fry, comprising of broccoli,onion, tuna, light cream cheese and tomato puree.-150
date-20
sultanas-50
prawn crackers-20
2 biscuits-60
an options hot chocolate-40
spoonful of custard-10
1430. Not good. I walked today, not as much as I should have, but nontheless it was walking. I worry that prawn crackers have more calorific value than I accredit to them. I shall dictionary it.
After last nights entry I ate a brownie. Why do these mundane things create such panic in the pit of my porcine stomach? Really, if I look at what I eat, it's so much that it's a wonder I'm the size I am. I should be bigger.
I have got five recalls out of the six things I auditioned for the other day. Yes, it is only amateur theatre, and yes, I believe one of the recalls is because friends are directing it; but nontheless, four recalls isn't bad. I did really want to be in the thing I failed to be recalled for, but I can deal with it- two other things I'd love to be in have recalled me as well.
Recently, a friend of mine had a child. She was very young to be having one; I've known her for a long time. We're both twenty. I suppose this isn't so young nowadays, in the age of the teen mum. I've always supposed that if I got pregnant, I'd have it sucked out of me. That seems strange to think of now that a real child is alive and everyone is so happy about it; I don't think abortion was ever an option for her. I don't even think it would have been the right choice for her. Would it be for me? I'm not pregnant. But if I was to be, would I be that bad a mother? Would it ruin my life? I don't think it'll destroy hers; she's having time off work, they haven't got a house and they won't have holidays for a while but I think they'll turn out well. If anything, the child will give them impetus. Me? I'd finish here, I'd have to slave away to make enough to get by... with a baby. Incomprehensible.
The bad mother question is a big one for me; if I did get pregnant, my family would think it was best that it was gotten rid of. Because they're pro choice, and I have got to live my life. But the baby could become my life, and things would be hard but not impossible, am I that immature that I would be such a horrendous parent? I am selfish, petty, intolerant.. anyway. I am creating scenarios that will not occur.
Anyway, she's very happy with her baby (my parents tell me). I don't at all want a child now, of course, it would be far too much responsibility for me; but it has put my life into perspective. I worry about calories, school marks, social acceptance, roles in plays; my friend worries about a tiny person she maintains responsibility for. It shifts your whole view around; my Mum told me about it, then asked what I'd been doing with my week. Of course, she doesn't know about my dietary quirks, but telling her about auditions and messing around with stuff just seems so insignificant, comparatively. My friend is content, happy and I think she'll make a good Mum.
Isn't psychedelic the antithesis of phonological spelling?
Most children parent on the basis of avoiding pitfalls that their parents created. I can think of nothing that my parents have done that is wrong; I haven't got anything to avoid.
porridge with dates and yoghurt-400
dates-20
two prawn crackers-10
two biscuits-60
a tex mex chicken wrap-400
a cookie (date and ginger)-200
a vegetable stir fry, comprising of broccoli,onion, tuna, light cream cheese and tomato puree.-150
date-20
sultanas-50
prawn crackers-20
2 biscuits-60
an options hot chocolate-40
spoonful of custard-10
1430. Not good. I walked today, not as much as I should have, but nontheless it was walking. I worry that prawn crackers have more calorific value than I accredit to them. I shall dictionary it.
After last nights entry I ate a brownie. Why do these mundane things create such panic in the pit of my porcine stomach? Really, if I look at what I eat, it's so much that it's a wonder I'm the size I am. I should be bigger.
I have got five recalls out of the six things I auditioned for the other day. Yes, it is only amateur theatre, and yes, I believe one of the recalls is because friends are directing it; but nontheless, four recalls isn't bad. I did really want to be in the thing I failed to be recalled for, but I can deal with it- two other things I'd love to be in have recalled me as well.
Recently, a friend of mine had a child. She was very young to be having one; I've known her for a long time. We're both twenty. I suppose this isn't so young nowadays, in the age of the teen mum. I've always supposed that if I got pregnant, I'd have it sucked out of me. That seems strange to think of now that a real child is alive and everyone is so happy about it; I don't think abortion was ever an option for her. I don't even think it would have been the right choice for her. Would it be for me? I'm not pregnant. But if I was to be, would I be that bad a mother? Would it ruin my life? I don't think it'll destroy hers; she's having time off work, they haven't got a house and they won't have holidays for a while but I think they'll turn out well. If anything, the child will give them impetus. Me? I'd finish here, I'd have to slave away to make enough to get by... with a baby. Incomprehensible.
The bad mother question is a big one for me; if I did get pregnant, my family would think it was best that it was gotten rid of. Because they're pro choice, and I have got to live my life. But the baby could become my life, and things would be hard but not impossible, am I that immature that I would be such a horrendous parent? I am selfish, petty, intolerant.. anyway. I am creating scenarios that will not occur.
Anyway, she's very happy with her baby (my parents tell me). I don't at all want a child now, of course, it would be far too much responsibility for me; but it has put my life into perspective. I worry about calories, school marks, social acceptance, roles in plays; my friend worries about a tiny person she maintains responsibility for. It shifts your whole view around; my Mum told me about it, then asked what I'd been doing with my week. Of course, she doesn't know about my dietary quirks, but telling her about auditions and messing around with stuff just seems so insignificant, comparatively. My friend is content, happy and I think she'll make a good Mum.
Isn't psychedelic the antithesis of phonological spelling?
Most children parent on the basis of avoiding pitfalls that their parents created. I can think of nothing that my parents have done that is wrong; I haven't got anything to avoid.
Thursday 1 February 2007
But summer fades to autumn fields as spring to beckoning winter yields, and Philomel becometh dumb; the rest complains of cares to come.
Calorie count:
Tortellini (400)
A tex mex chicken wrap (400)
A cookie (a big one) (300)
Hot chocolate (40)
Should I say the cookie was 400, just in case? It could have been. Anyway, it is half past ten and I am under my calorie allowance, albeit minus my five fruit and veg today. Tomorrow I must go shopping for my legume needs. I did my walking today as well, I put on my mp3 player and danced all over the concrete.
Moments such as these are what separates fatties from skinnies; I could easily eat lots at this minute, but I want to be thin more. Yes, I do. I do I do I do. So instead, I will listen to music and draw, and of course write this.
I could have two tangerines.
When I ate 500 a day, I used to discount fruit. I reasoned that I needed it.
Now it should fit within the allowance as should I.
I am becoming increasingly paranoid about my body. I feel that when people say things, such as the other day, one of my seminar tutors, "we've all got different shapes and sizes in this room", about feminist writing (we were all discussing a poem called my hips) I looked at everyone and thought, they must be evaluating where they line up, weight wise. And I will be right at the top of the scale, and consequently the bottom of the hierarchy. My play, as well; they'll all be looking at the other eleven girls, who are pretty and slim, and then at me... the odd one out. My director said, the other day, about the last section of my monologue, "you're an attractive, likeable girl delivering this to people that like you, confidently but you care as well". That is the problem. I do not feel attractive; I do not feel that most people in that audience will like me. Attractiveness is something you can act; you can maintain a confident facade, and smile. So can I, then?
I do know where this all comes from. When I was little, my mother used to tell me that I should dress nicely as it reflected on them if I didn't, it made them look like a negligent family. She was completely right, it did; I dressed in the worst clothes, the tattiest and most worn. I maintained that it shouldn't matter how I looked; people should judge me for who I was. I wanted to be seen as the deceptively tatty intelligent street-urchin type child, I wanted to look like the loner that would ultimately succeed- I can remember this, from long ago. I was fat; I didn't want to look like that. Anyway, from an early age I have known that people were watching me, and judging me, and though I stick by my ten year old ausblick that that is wrong, I have shuttled over to my mother's that it does still occur. Frequently. Now my aspirations are vaguely more realistic. I want people to think I am intelligent, quirky and that I stand out from the crowd. I'd love them to think I was slim, with an enviable figure, but I know that won't be happening for a while.
I auditioned for some more plays today; one of the directors wanted me to do a callback, I'll know about the rest later on. I think it was because I was willing to stay for a long time rather than blinding talent that got me the callback; what a shame.
I choose the title of my posts by selecting the line that pops into my head. Sometimes it's what I'm listening to at that moment; today, it is the reply to the shepherd. I adore that poem.
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