And so I face the wall, turn my back against the wall.

Eating today:

2 chocolate brownies 400

2 tangerines 40

broccoli, pasta, tuna and light mayonnaise 300

pic n mix (brazil nuts, chocolate caramel crisps, amounting all in all to 200g). - I dread to calculate. 800 at least.

Damn. It was so good till the pic n mix. I'd love to say that my pic n mix was 500 calories, then I'd be within the count; I suppose at least it's 1500. I walked a lot today.

I can't stop listening to the song Sex Crime, 1984, by the Eurythmics as it incorporates both Orwell and the music I adore. "Ich habe eine Ohrwurm", so als die Deutschen sagen wuerde. I am especially enjoying the dissolution of language they use, showing that they have gleaned some partial understanding of the text; "unborn, unliving" are negations of good concepts used to disenfranchise the masses from negative thoughts and expression regarding the government. I fear the advent of the text message, and textspeak (which I class on a par with newspeak, hampering language development) will have a similar effect on today's youth, and as they can't express themselves via language, or argue capably, they will have to resort to violence and gun crime (possibly also sex crime). Linguists would argue that language in textspeak is used in a new and creative way, but I would say that a text vocabulary is condensed and few neologisms arise; words are ran into one another and rendered unclear, aside from one meaning.

I saw a film with a friend today, which was lovely, and we had a good chat afterwards; I almost admitted my bisexuality, I think I conceeded it. She asked if there were any women or men on the horizon, comically, and I remarked there were none. So this is conceeding, but only to a comic remark? I don't really want to "come out" to everyone and have them categorise me, or to create a furore. I trust many of my friends not to do this; I don't know. I'll appear in a vagina related play, yet cannot divulge information about myself to my closest friends. This is because a play is someone else entirely; a different you that is not serious, a perfect you without the quirks and kinks. In front of strangers that will judge me, but that I cannot see (in der rampenlicht, bin ich taub- I am blind in the limelight- literally, I cannot see the audience for the dazzle) it's almost as if I'm alone in a room and they're not there at all. This is why I love acting; it is almost a surprise to me that others know of my expeditions into the thespian, as I seldom realise an audience is present.

I also went to an agency that aids prostitutes and drug addicts today (that's what wer'e giving the proceeds from the play to). It was so interesting; I felt I should have asked more questions, but I already understood a lot of what she was saying and didn't feel I could add anything. The woman that ran it was fantastic; a girl asked her what made her give up prostitution, and she said that how did we know she wasn't still a prostitute? I don't know what to think about prostitution; there seems to be something wrong with selling emotions, but I act, many people perform for careers, or con, many do jobs for worse money; aside from the health risks, why not sell your body as a commodity? Celebrities, vacuous idiots, do and reap rewards; I would rather be a prostitute than a Paris Hilton (though there isn't much distinction; the woman today was infinitely wiser than Paris and her acolytes). It was all very intriguing, and definitely made me think.

Good day, shame I'm a heiffer.

Consumption today reached ludic levels, continuing the blast of binge that has cumulated from fronts arising between willpower and self esteem.

Here is what I wish I had ate today:

tortellini (goats cheese and pesto) 450

A chicken wrap -240

tortellini again for dinner- 450

tomatoes-20

an apple (40)

a tangerine (20)

That would have been 1200; quite respectable.

But I also ate:

two brazil nuts coated in chocolate, half a white chocolate mouse and a fudge cube (pic n mix) (100)

two chocolate biscuits-160

dates (200)

three cocktails and a shot of tequila. The cocktails were martini-cosmopolitan types, not the fatty ones. Not that it makes much difference.

a slice of bread and low fat cream cheese. (100)

which adds a stupendous 560 calories, leaving out alcohol. I could say, I walked, I burned off some of it, I'm on my period and bound to eat more, but then I look at this list and think, no wonder I am fatty fat fat fat.

I did walk.

Let me explain the correlation between self esteem and willpower. Willpower arises from the knowledge that one can; for example, this occurs in academia; in other circles, where I was fairly authoritative, I can speak with wisdom and experience. Place me with high ranking intellectuals, and instead of feeling stimulated, I am intimidated by their vast swathes of knowledge as compared to my shallow puddle. Self esteem (knowing that I have fulfilled the ideal self of sticking to my allowance and maintaining my goals) is shattered when I look in the mirror and see my porcine reflection. Consequently, the goal is unreachable; I may as well eat what I will.

And I miss having someone; when I am lost in seas of adoration, it sustains me better than food can. It isn't even a butterflied stomach; it's just the idea of them. If I'm honest, the idea of being perfect for them. I don't think I've got much to offer; I could at least offer a half decent body. I suppose this could be applicable to general life. Also, that I don't want people to look at me and pity me. It's the pity; "God, look at the size of her", and the inevitable reflection on how I must be sad inside. I'm actually not; I am fairly happy, but, as with most people, I externalize happiness and internalize what is left.

I am worried about the amount of things I must memorise shortly. Vagina Monologue scripts and the like. I did have a good day today though; lots of laughter with my director in rehearsals, lots of laughing with friends after. I really like most of my cast, but not one specific girl; let's call her posersloane. Posersloane turned up to the first rehearsal with an air of malaise clad in a woolly hat AND sunglasses, in winter. SUNGLASSES IN WINTER. This is why I believe she is a complete penis. That, and she is too vocal concerning the directon of our play (our director is wonderful), and I always get a vibe from her that I'm not interesting enough to hold her noncholant attention; in short (and she is vertically challenged), she is up herself, dear readers. But there are some very interesting, amusing people as well; my favourites are two friends I've got already, they're very funny (we make up fake raps, which are terrible), my director (he is loud, and a man directing The Vagina Monologues), the producer's aide (quietly confident, clever, amusing jewish girl the same age as me), timid girl, small cockney girl, two girls I didn't know before but are very good actresses but not at all full of themselves, and the rest in general.

Beauty lies where you find it, which is unfortunate if you have a tendency towards losing.

Eating today:

porridge and yoghurt (400)

gingerbread men (50)

pasta and tuna tomato sauce (400)

an apple with peanut butter (200)

a brownie (200)

I guesstimate the brownie; they are small, but you can never trust confectionary. Yet, still it lures me back with tasty promises... cocksucker. Anyway, 1250 isn't too bad for today. It is half past eleven at night. I would like to go out for a run, but I don't want to become the next victim of gun crime.

Really the solution would be to make sugar obsolete. Unfortunately I lack the willpower. I have decided to concentrate on getting my five a day government recommended fruit and veg, to ease the strain on the NHS.... well, ultimately to fill myself up with fruit and natural goodness as opposed to calorifically horrific substances. I can't pretend to be philanthropic about my dietary plans.

I would like the song Alisha Rules the World, by Alisha's Attic, to apply directly to me. Alternatively, I could be a Eurythmics song... in reality? Fat Bottomed Girls, ha. A distinct possibility. Or Narcissus by Alanis Morisette (was it applicable to a girl).

My friends would like to work for the foreign office, be journalists or go into law. These are all good career choices; deep down, a part of me would like to be an actress but I know I'd get bored of it, I'm not good enough, or good looking enough; I would want to be a Judi Dench, or an Emma Thompson, who aren't considered the creme de la creme aesthetically in the hollywood world, but I'm betting that if you saw them in the street they'd be gorgeous. I am just not up to that standard, talent or looks wise.

I could try something artistic, but I am sadly lacking in qualifications. So I should start doing some kind of night course; it's tricky to fit in with the Vagina Monologues and education, though.

I slept for twelve hours last night. How ridiculous; nobody needs that much sleep. I haven't done many of the things I planned to, but there is time; I have lazed a lot. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself because I've been used to either working or feeling guilty about not working; this panacea feels slightly bizarre. I have put on an inch; I am 35-29-39. How depressing.

Still now you're waiting to grow, inside you're old.

Today, recorded elsewhere in print, in paper and ink, the thoughts I think, the things I eat, were fourteen hundred calories. And the lack of movement I have jigged makes this unacceptable. I took some photos of myself and all that stared back at me was an ugly fat girl.

Nowhere in literature was there ever a heroine that was ugly, or fat. They are exclusive categories; you may be one or the other, but to be the focus of any literary attention, not necessarily desirable attention, you must posess a few flaws but none in abundance.

So I'll never be a heroine until I slim. Who was it that said "It is a strange feeling when you realise you are no longer the heroine in your own life"?

In five years... ideally. I would be powerful in my chosen career path, well travelled, many of the things on the list below, possibly with my first child on the way. If I was ready, in a good relationship that would last, and able. I would be debt free, or almost, at least. I know where I want to live. I want to live in a flat on a top floor, with a balcony and a cat, possibly with a partner. I would have a breakfast bar, some big glass jars separating room from room, a matte kitchen, wooden floors, huge open windows to let in the breeze, simple mats on the floor, an open plan dining and living room with an L shaped corduroy sofa and it would be clean. It would overlook a park, and possibly be in Germany. At night, I (or we) would sit on the balcony, and read or do the crossword in the moonlight with a lamp between us and a bottle of beer. In the winter there would be snow and we (or I) would repeat this nightly ritual indoors. I do not want to get married; why should a piece of paper make any difference to a relationship? Do I need to certify that I want to be with this one person forever? No, I would be with someone I was secure enough to love without needing that.

I am not suspecting that any of this will happen, or even that it would make me happy was I suddenly to achieve it all, especially the things about the flat; it isn't your surroundings that make you happy, it's who you're with. For the moment, these are my dreams. They can always change. I thought, at around seven or eight, that to leave home would be horrible and terrifyingly lonely. I believed I would get married around twenty, become a detective, or a vet, or an artist or writer, and have children. Those are no longer my dreams; I want different things, and I am prepared for change. I would still be a writer or artist, maybe even a detective. I loved animals (I don't so much anymore) but I grow nauseous on visceral occasions. I have left home and I am happy. I am still a spinster, or bachelorette, whatever the term is nowadays.

If I could be anything I would be:

Slim. Obviously. I would weigh about eight and a half stones. Eight stones would be lovely. It would take me a long time to get there. In order to reach this, I need to begin to exercise.

Beautiful. Or would I be beautiful? I don't want to be a permatanned bimbo, no. I would have red hair (as in Lady Lazarus; I rise out of the ash with my red hair, and I eat men like air.) I would have huge vampiric eyes all the colours of the world, sparking with flecks of ideas. I would be as pale as whitened bone, which served to highlight darkened eyebrows and long eyelashes. I would have white, even teeth in a wide red mouth and an aquiline nose. I would have a stem like neck and a strange jaw, almost prominent, with sharp cheekbones.

A little bit shorter. Towering over my friends is no fun; I am not so tall, but I dislike being made to feel more masculine than I already do.

Clever. Clever enough to get a first without trying, and to have succeeded at getting into higher brow places of learning.

Perspicacious, intimidating and self confident. With the ability to make everyone laugh. I think I make people laugh, but at me not with me.

Some kind of journalist, or lawyer, with a lot of power over what I wrote. These are achievable. I must begin to build a portfolio.

Organized.

Many of these are within my capabilities. I need to believe in myself more. I need more zest.

To get back the feeling of acting, I need to act as if I am in an audition as opposed to in front of my director, whom I have foolishly enshrined. I need to start getting up earlier. I need to do lots of things.

Here are the things I am looking forward to doing after this Friday:

Waxing my armpits
This may sound painful, but I enjoy the smoothness I am left with. Two minutes of pain for weeks of silky smooth oxsters is a good compromise.

Going into the city centre to browse charity shops and eat cake for breakfast
These are two of my favourite activities.

Getting drunk with my friends
Usually I despise plans to get drunk; the gradual loss of sobriety should be unintended, but I feel this is a special occasion.

Beginning an exercise routine
As then I will at least feel I am doing something to negate my ludicrous urge to stuff my face.

Auditioning for more plays
As I can completely let go in auditions; if they're going to be judging you, you might as well give it all you've got and hold nothing back.

Paying more attention to what I am wearing, and having time to moisturise my legs in the morning
As I have let this slide by the wayside.

I am also looking forward to seeing my family in a few weeks, they are planning holidays. I love my family and get on really well with all of them (I refer here to my nuclear family, and a certain branch of the non nuclear segment). They are accepting and encouraging without being completely in the clouds about the realms of what it is possible to achieve.

I am a chimbley, a chimbley sweep.

Eating today
Tortellini (400)
sultanas (100)

Pic and Mix, 125g, liquorice allsorts and brazil nuts coated in chocolate (500)

a hot chocolate (40)
stir fry omlette: 2 eggs, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms and cheese. (200)
sultanas (100)

Goddamnit. I shall never be stick limbed with seraphim and seaweed. 840 add 500 is... 1340. Same as yesterday. It's probably about 1400 actually. Damn damn damn. I have split the above items into meals; the way I eat is strange. I walked my four miles. It is snowing here, how lovely.

Nice things my friend told me today: that her friends like me, and that my hair colour is beautiful. Both of these were good things, but I almost feel that people are coerced into telling me my hair colour is nice as it is fairly distinctive and if people don't say its nice then it must be disgusting. It can't ever just be in the middle like normal hair colours. I had a good day of revision... ish.

I asked her if she wanted to come to the library and she said no... I wonder if it is because she hates me or really works better at home?

I also had a one on one rehersal, which was horrific. I am desperate to impress my director (stupid, I know, as it's only amateur theatre) and in my desperation, was unable to act. It was classic corpsing; I couldn't put any emotion into my lines and now I'm scared to read them again, in case they don't get any better. It was worse because he was so lovely to me about it and very encouraging. Then I wanted to please him more, I could hear myself going wrong but I somehow lost control of my vocal chords, and mental abilities. It was really bad, I've not had that sort of problem with acting before; I am feeling like I haven't got any control lately. I'm just about keeping my head above water financially, academia is down the pan, there is noone for me on the horizon of love, I am calorifically shit and my fashion sense is fast disappearing in correlation to my weight gain. Ok, let's look at the good things in life: your friends. I adore my friends and housemates, though I am constantly worried that they dislike me. I... am unencumbered by children.

God there's got to be more about me than that that I can enjoy!

I cannot cry. This may seem strange, given my disposition to whinging. But I can't, pure and simple. I cried last at my Grandmother's funeral, that was six years and a month ago. I dislike showing emotion and equate it with weakness, as I used to cry at losing arguments with my parents and it means pity and a shunning of everything I've said as emotional. I hate pity, a point I have reiterated many a time.

I am also classed, by many of my friends, as a cheery person. I have been compared to a red squirrel, as I am fairly energetic and jumpy, though not, I hope, as if I am suffering tardive dyskynesia. I suppose I would rather be feline (this comparison has been made once). I think I am all too morose to be a squirrel; I would class myself as... at the moment, slow, dull... a buzzard. A hippo? A block of wood? A corpse, given my acting. A crocodile, likely to snap. I don't know.

Seraphim and seaweed swim where stick-limbed Myla lies.

Isn't the assonance in that sentence lovely? I can't claim credit, it is, of course, the Decemberists. Is assonance right... yes, it's the vowel sound. I had this image of a girl on a watery bed with all this seaweed and seraphim... when I'm patient enough I'll draw it. Myla always reminds me of Myra Hindley, moors murderer, but she is, of course, Myla Goldberg, famous playwright as opposed to the killer's aide.

A chicken fajita wrap- 327
A Brownie- 273
A sausage roll (200)
Tortellini and pesto (400)
sultanas (100)
a biscuit (40)
some gingerbread (70)
an apple (40)
a tangerine (20)

270 and 600 and 500- 1370. Best to say 1400. I did some walking (about three miles) and arose fairly early. This is 200 calories over what I should be eating. Ok, let's plan tomorrow. Tomorrow, at twelve, I shall eat either a large cookie, or a chicken thai wrap. Something to the tune of 300 calories. Then, at four, I shall partake of something to the tune of four hundred; possibly what I didn't eat at twelve, or, should I be chez moi, tortellini, or pasta and veg, or stir fry veg. Should I not consume one of these for lunch, at four, I shall consume them for dinner at eight. After this, I shall allow myself the other three or two hundred calories in fruit or chocolatey form. I plan for this to happen every day; if only I hadn't ate that damn brownie. That put me exactly 200 over, it's so annoying, I didn't need it, I was just revising and it was there. Wank wank wank.

I missed her a bit today, because I went to places we'd normally traverse together. And I felt like a fatty, but what's new there? Nothing. I suppose I am missing her less, it's more of an ache or a twinge now and then than the voracious gnaw at the edifices of my mind that it was. Today, I kept remembering how, when I'd sat in the particular place I was, once she was opposite me working. Every now and then, I'd stare up, like Gabriel Oak and Bathsheba Everdene (when you look up, there I'll be). I couldn't believe my luck (there's a lesson to be learned there). Then, when I was immersed in some book, she quietly placed her hand on top of mine. That little tiny motion sent tremors through me, shocks. I am easily moved, but all I did was smile to her back behind a curtain of hair. I'm almost certain I jumped from the shock. It's stuff like that I remember and miss. But it has always been this way.

I saw a circus of horrors that was really a circus of overrated, overhyped people with no self awareness that they were tacky. Having said that, it was fairly entertaining, audience participation was good; and I saw it free. The aerial artists were amazing, but then I don't know much about rope stuff so I couldn't tell. It was all very church- hall, but still, better than a kick in the teeth. Someone suspended their body with meathooks through the skin- I'd never seen it live. And there was a woman who seemed to insist on flashing her breasts at every opportunity, lord knows why. There were other women who managed to contain their naturist urges.

Most things, really, are preferable to a kick in the teeth. In fact, I highly prize my gnashers; I can think of nothing worse than having none. Or worse, having some broken off.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

I don't know where that phrase came from, but I'd like it to apply to me. I wonder if it's something you can learn? It sounds pretty passive aggressive, I don't want to be passive aggressive. I just want to have hidden power and beauty. I don't think beauty has to be a solely facial event, it's more of an aura.

Calories are listed in a written diary today. 1520 exactly. Which is too much. Bastard sultanas, dried fruit, you are my downfall. They don't even exude laxative effects, just give me wind and make me put on weight. How very ironic. This has always happened.

My posse came for a revision session today; we took over the living room with junk food and dried fruits, and attempted some learning. If anyone out there knows how to distinguish categories from thematics, taxonomically speaking, I'd love to discuss it. I felt slightly better about being shit, because they were about the same level as me. I think. The exam will prove it. This year only counts for forty percent anyway.

Ophelia's respite among fronds of reeds
Supine in madness and drown'd indeed
Lilies bloom and silt billows round
The pale white bone and last ludic crown.

Syllable structure isn't quite right on that one. I've got a picture of Ophelia on my wall, it's very dark, sepulchral, and pretty. Erin O'Connor is modelling it; she has the look of someone being borne away on a tide, just keeping their head above water until eventually the current takes them under. It's a beautiful picture; only beauty is allowed on my walls. Or something I really adore; my friends sometimes draw me pictures, or write me limericks, and I like them there for sentiment. Then there are birthday cards, pictures I have drawn that I deem acceptable, some fairy lights, pictures of me as a child (three), a timetable, pictures of my friends and mementos here and there, a T-shirt pinned up, a bell from a long-digested chocolate, a map of the London tube though I hail not from our capital (except in spirit) and a tattered OS A3 map of Muenchen. No pictures of food are allowed, temptation is not endorsed in my inner sanctum, though pictures of alcholic beverages are fine as they are the most aesthetically pleasing. Most of the things I like are lakes, Russian sights, opals, carefully crafted jewels to look like vines... and city scapes.

I have always wanted to visit Russia. I am not quite sure why; I remember, vaguely, a Children of the World book. There was a girl in it, my age, called Olga from Russia. She had a sister named Dascha. Both of them wore the shiniest shoes I had ever seen. I knew, even at that young age, that she was at the top of her social hierarchy. She went to a ballet school, away from home, and lived in a flat with her parents. Her life, her clothes and her house all seemed like something I would love to have (finding shoes was always a problem, and I had ideas of victorian dress, though this was not feasible for me). From that moment, or maybe before, Russia seemed mysterious and brutal. I have wanted to go ever since. A land of Tsars, of corruption, of bleak lacquer and old decaying riches. Russia is full of treasure amid the wreckage of communist blitzing, at least, to my mind.

Another girl in the book was from an African Maasai tribe. She was called Estha, or Esther. She was fifteen, and she seemed so happy. She didn't have much; she loved to wear her school uniform, because it was the prettiest thing she owned. I thought her necklaces were more exciting, but each to their own. The other month, I read an article about a woman called Esther who had a son, who was going blind because of cataracts. She was about the right age. I wondered how many African women, that age, are called Esther. I thought, how strange that I feel I have been privy to her growing up, and she knows nothing of me. I thought how happy she looked, and if, looking down the line, she saw a half blind son and marriage, waiting in a clinic for hours and hours on end. I suppose she did, because her sisters were married and must have gone through similar trauma. I can't remember what she wanted to be; I hope she got it. A teacher, I think.

It's about how much you can take before getting knocked down, and how far you can get back up again.

Eating today:

Pasta and pesto (350)
sultanas (200)
beans on toast (2 slices half a can of low sugar beans) (350)
an apple (40)
a subway 6 inch meatball marinara (400)
a happy hippo (100)

I think I've just snacked on sultanas all day, which aren't fatty but their bastard calorific content is through the roof. Fourteen hundred calories is more than I need. Why do I always stuff my face, it is simply ludicrous. Now, what else have I ate today? Maybe a happy hippo, maybe that's it. I haven't got any other snacking materials, apart from cookies which don't lure me as much as sultanas. It's not been a day of much accomplishment; some revision, I meant to meet my friends at the library and go to a house viewing but achieved neither target.

I do like my housemates. They're all very entertaining and morally upstanding- I was trying to think of synonyms for nice, as I detest that word. My home economics teacher said it was an acronym for "nothing interesting cunt ear"... well, the first two letters are accurate. I don't think she used cunt ear. Anyway, the point is I am very glad to house share with the people I share with.

I turned my room into a sauna in order to dry my clothes by whacking up the blower that heats it. My clothes are almost all dry, so it did work. But I wondered why it doesn't precipitate indoors; my housemate said there aren't the climactic and geographical extremes necessary. I suppose this is true; for anything to occur, extremes are needed. It's tricky to eke something of note out of mediocrity. I am not sure if this is what I truly believe but it popped into my head as I was educated on the whys and wheres of rainfall.

I still miss her. I am mediocre, of mediocre intelligence and mediocre everything, and there's always more needed if you're going to fall for someone.

I saw Rocky Balboa today, expecting to hate every second. The beginning was slow, the storyline and characters cheesy and underdeveloped, the whole affair was obviously just a massive ego boost for Stallone (who must surely confuse himself with the eponymous hero he portrays from time to time)... but I liked it. Not only did I involve myself with the characters and audibly gasp at the feats of pugilism contained within, but I want to begin boxing now. I like the thwack of the gloves. My housemate and I ran to the top of every flight of stairs we found on our way home and sprang appreciatively, in homage to the film. Our other housemates took blurry pictures.

I tried to look like Grace Kelly, but all her looks were too sad.

Eating today:

pasta and pesto (400)
a happy hippo (100)
two tangerines (40)
sultanas and yoghurt (300)
Coleslaw (100)
sausage, mushroom, tomato onion stir fry (300)
happy hippo (100)

I am pretty sure I ate something else as well, at lunch with sultanas and yoghurt... I also ate 3 smarties, a polo, and a glass of tia maria and coke. I didn't order diet because it felt stupid.

So I'm saying about 1300. Food alone. I wish I could remember what I'd had at sultana and yoghurt time... not a biscuit. Coleslaw? No. WHAT WAS IT?

I've walked a bit today.

It's so strange... I woke up this morning in a horrendous mood because I'd spent the night feeling shit that my friends were all so much cleverer than me... I've had the same background, but I'm still not achieving as I should. I woke up feeling fatter than ever, uglier, stupider... I can't think of anything you could be, that I would want to be... humorous. I felt like I had no spark. That's so trite, but it was true.

Then, about half four, I went for a walk and the cloud lifted a bit. Then I had my first rehersal and I stopped worrying about what I looked like in my trousers, or that I was the fattest and largest there, and started to properly enjoy these stupid games we were playing. I didn't even feel like I was particularly good at them, but it helped so much to be out and walking about, just in life instead of a bit out of it.

Acting, pretending to be someone else, definitely lifts the cloud.

Knowing someone thought I was good enough to be there was a lift.

I came back in a really good mood, and chirped around with my housemates for a bit. I also discovered a band called Mika, which is good. The music makes me wave my arms and mouth along to the words.

Should we pity those who haven't got as much as us? I would say no, because I hate being pitied. That is one of the reasons I want to lose weight, I hate being discreetly felt sorry for. I don't think we should... I think people from all walks of life can be happy, and it's being happy that counts, even if you're ignorant. I think if you're not happy, you know.

Also, none of my friends want to end up like their mothers... apparently, they're all eating disordered, high achievers. Which is ironic, because they don't have eating disorders but are high achievers. My Mother... I admire her an awful lot. I think she's really cool, cooler than me. She's my code of behaviour, she gives the best advice, she's like a friend and a mother... I don't want to be her. But I don't want to be anyone, really. I know I would like to be powerful and eminent within my chosen industry, though I know that doesn't always bring happiness, doing something worthwhile (so not fashion) and ethical, possibly travelling, or at least involving travel. My Mother would have wanted all of these and could have had them, but she never got the chance. It was never suggested.

Stupid Girl.

Eating today:

wrap, thai chicken (300)
two oranges (40)
two chocolate pieces (60)
cookie dough (250)
soup (160)
an apple (40)
Sausage mushroom and onion stir fry (200)
half a cake (100)
cookie dough (70)
raisins (130)
coleslaw (100)

Ok. 1340. I have walked about four or four and a half miles today. I don't know if this is enough... well, nothing is happening yet. I know it won't go for a while, but it feels so annoying to have this tyre round my middle when I am endeavouring to wipe it clean away.

I can't think of many things to say to her lately... I have become a sort of mute. I am terrified... terrified is too strong. Worried she will think I am stupid, or that she does, so in order not to compound this view I remain silent. It's when she turns her back, or when I see her back, I am reminded that once she wouldn't mind if I went and touched her shoulder lightly. Or clasped her middle. She used to... when I was cooking, she used to first touch the small of my back and then put her head on my shoulder. Remembering makes the bolus rise up in my throat.

Oh how I adore
And abhor

Abhor is for me. Adore is for her. She'll probably never know... even when I get drunk I solemnly resolve not to send her a text.

Strolling round the lake
Respite from work
Retrailing conversations
And dampening shoes
Corroding winds
And diminutive things


Someone showed me photos of me today that were hideous, taken three weeks ago, and I doubt I've improved. Chunky legs, flabby arms, double chin, broad shoulders... they're horrible. I hope the camera adds thirty pounds, fifty, sixty. I know it doesn't lie. Neither does the mirror. I know I am getting fatter because photographs don't correspond to what I see... the mirror is bad, photos are worse, I am drawing fatter... the centre cannot hold.

So I keep under 1200 instead and hope that does the trick. Not today. But tomorrow I will. I will rise and shine, I will not pine.

I do not spend my days pining, contrary to this. I usually arise, make my way to education, stay around, learn, learn, learn, return, sortie with people, talk to my comrades of housing.... I am in a play, I do things. It seems that writing brings out the melancholia. Where are my smelling salts?

I know New York, I need New York, I know I need unique New York.

Eatings today:

A thai chicken wrap (280)
an apple (40)
some hot chocolate (40)
A chocolate chip cookie (300)
some coffee (0)
soup-carrot, squash and parsnip (150)
a pint of home brewed bitter
two tangerines (40)
an apple tart (200)
cookie dough (100)

1170... without the bitter. Damn damn damn. To be fair, I was up bright and early at half past eight and only had four hours sleep, which is bound to increase appetite... but I shouldn't have had that bitter. I've walked today. I hope that burned it off.

Well, if I hadn't had the bitter my friends would have thought I was rejecting them, and that I disliked them. I do not want them to think this. But I am a person with goals and aims.

I got a 2.2 in an essay I handed in today... this is an improvement on last year, but all of my friends (excepting one) got high 2.1s or firsts. So, comparatively I am shit. I worry that primarily, this shows I am stupid, secondly, my friends will not want to hang around with such an ignoramus, thirdly, I will fail in life and never get a job. The one thing I was good at was academia.... now it turns out that I'm not clever at all.

It could have been worse. I could have failed. At least I improved.

I had a walk round the lake. She cooked me soup. She held the crook of my arm to keep from slipping across some shiny wet floor. She doesn't hate me. Neither is she in love with me. It's better than a kick in the teeth. What if she thinks I'm stupid, or self obsessed or fat or horrid? What if she's secretly thinking all of these things? What if she's not, come on, shake yourself! Don't be so stupid. Ha.

I spent seven hours in the library today. I hope against hope it will come to some sort of use.

So what can I do? Well, I may appear stupid, with my wide set face and vacant eyes. But I can change that, I can do more work, I can become cleverer, I can I can. I can change how I look, I can lose weight, I can.

If I could, I would have the same mark as my friends. Or better.

I am healthy and hale. I am not too financially constrained. I enjoyed the Edukators. I have got friends and family. I am at university, at least, and did not get lower than 56 percent. There are lossom thinge in lyve, as they would say in Middle English. Well, they'd use a thorn for thinge.

Meanderings of the mind.

Ok, the calorie count. It is so easy to give up on it on days I don't keep to it. I think what's the real point? But then on days when I've won, not my stomach, I need to record it.

So.

A shortcake thing (thought, oh god, shortcake at half one, I will lose) (200)
Beef sandwich lite (300)
An apple (40)
A bite of my friend's carrot and cheese sandwich (15)
A pasta and bean dinner (400)
A vanilla slice, which would be 286 calories but I only ate half.. I wonder if cream or shortcrust is more calorific?(150)
half a small blueberry pancake (50)

1150... that's damn good. The other day's was 1250.

Ha! Though... do I need fifty more calories? I am determined never to starve myself again. That only starts binge cycling, and I'd never vomit so I don't want to do anything like that.

I just had two more bites of cake and a biscuit. So 1240 now. But I did some walking today, so that should be ok.

So, why record the calories?

Because if I see what's going in my mouth I can see what's bad about it. Because it helps me feel I've achieved something by the end of the day. I really should give myself some sort of reward if I fall within the boundaries... wearing makeup? I don't think I could bear to do without makeup on certain days. Food is obviously a no. Shopping is tricky as money is tight for a student such as myself. A pound for every day I do it? Seven quid a week... stupid as it is, that's a tenth of my budget and I can't spare it. So how do I reward myself?

She came round tonight, and it was actually really good... I'd been worried she hated me. She must not, to want to spend time with me. And she'll see me tomorrow too, so she must not completely despise me... which is good. I vowed I'd tell her sorry though, and I haven't. That is bad. I'll tell her sorry tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes, you silly cow.

I worry that I appeared too self centred, too stupid, too everything... oh no. Why on earth does this worry always drown me? I can't think of a point in my life when I haven't believed that someone disliked me. That's obvious, I mean nobody can be loved by everyone. Or even liked by everyone. But why do I worry about it? I only worry when it's people I like, because if they dislike me then what do I do? I don't know where this fear stems from... my family, I know, have always loved me. At school, I was never popular... I'm pretty sure that for the first couple of years people hated me (I was ugly and fat, what was not to hate?) then I lost a bit of weight and wore better makeup and suddenly... I wasn't so bad. Then, here, in the first week I socialised with this group of girls who never spoke to me again, no idea why, just like that... cut me off. But, aside from these experiences, and people thinking I'm a geek, there isn't much to say I should have this huge complex about people hating me.

I must work to the bottom of it one day.

Someone on another blog today said a snippet of some shoddy poem I'd written whilst drunk was "so close", which was exciting. To think that someone else had seen my poetry, first of all, though everyone that posted on that blog was so obsessed by gastric bypass surgery they didn't really notice it... well, it wasn't so comment-worthy, excepting its incongruity. I'm not sure that's a word. How do you make pecuniary into an -ily word? An adverb, no... adjective. Some sort of comparative adjective... "Is it worth it, pecunarily speaking", would be how I'd want to use it.

I suppose we're all obsessed with something. I'm obsessed with... finding happiness. Well, everyone is, everyone is obsessed with those things that they think will make them happy. Mine happen to be learning more, gaining power, losing weight, being with friends, letting my creative juices run riot. I know that the weight thing, ultimately, is useless, and that if I keep nagging at it, I will end up obese one day... sods law. I do obsess over how others perceive me, especially if I like them. That is so that... I can monitor myself in the future and thus make them not dislike me? That, or damage minimisation... if they hate me, and I know, then I can at least arrange the artillery before the bombs come raining down, as it were.

I read a shitty book. The Hippopotamus, by Stephen Fry. It wasn't the worst book I've ever read, maybe a shade above Jilly Cooper... of that ilk. Rosamunde Pilcher et al. It's just that I adore Stephen Fry, I made plans to turn him one day and the discovery that he is none so eloquent or entertaining as I believed is shocking. The books plot leaves a lot to be desired, it appears to be fairly fantastical in a book that advocates common sense and its ending is not clearly delineated, nor presented in such a fashion as to make the reader cogitate over it. The language is not erudite or eloquent. In short, it was boorish and boring.

Back to the Dickens, then... I am reading The Old Curiosity Shop. People complain that it is boring and clunky with stereotyped characters. To them, I say nay. I like this book; slow though it may be, I like reverting to these stereotypes; isn't everyone a stereotype of something? I like the hustle and bustle of it, I like the freshness of an author writing about something verging on the scandalous (the working classes, for that audience), I even like the perfection little Nell embodies. I like the mannish Sally Brass, though I can see she's heading for a downfall (mind, if reviews are to be believed, so is little Nell, I hear she falls off that golden perch of hers at the end). Anyway, her brother isn't so cleanly cut between black and white. Even as I write all of this, I realise that Dickens is nothing more than an 18th century Jilly Cooper, a writer of escapist fiction out for a quick buck. Isn't it strange how things change with time? In a hundred years, will Jilly Cooper suddenly gain prestige? Or even something more base, such as daytime TV, or Take a Break magazine... will there be courses on it? I suppose journalism courses already exist, which I believe to be pointless; I am doing a degree to keep my options open as to what I can go into, journalism being a potential avenue. If journalism was all I wanted to do, I'd have gone straight off to work at the Times, if they'd have me, or the Guardian. Or some sort of publication. I wouldn't have dossed away frittering cash on a three year course.

I can't advocate studying the arts. Something in me knows that they are incredibly important; but the sustaining of life is more so, and that is down to the sciences. However, what is life if not filled with creativity? People manage to live very well without it. My Mum, for example, is perfectly happy without good poetry, books, knowledge of history... she enjoys other things, like fitness and seeing our family happy, or righting wrongs. I think these are all important things. She likes some history. I consider her an intelligent individual, lacking in nothing. Yet, my life without books would be bare, as would life without theatre or drawing. Most of the people I know are similar, but I interact with mainly university students and academics. Of course they'll like things like this.

You can also say that many science students go into things like engineering plastic, slimming pills, paper design... superfluous things that we don't need, that wreck the environment and do far more damage than journalists encouraging people to cogitate over the way we live. However, what scientists do reaches the masses; journalism only reaches those who read, and good journalism fewer still. Degrees like law, that help people, are useful. I do believe that instead of educating the few in the world to unreachable heights, we should be working on making those that have nothing happier. What use is learning about writers when hunger is rampant in other third world countries? What are we doing to help that, with our english? I suppose, in studying books, you know about those countries and knowledge is always the first step to help. I know that higher activity keeps us all bound together, but if it was up to me I'd make arts things far cheaper than they are and pay doctors or researchers far more.

I cannot argue for an arts degree, yet I undertake one because I can do nothing else. I am fair at maths and science, but no Einstein; I cannot cope with chemistry or the sight of blood. So I must do an arts degree.

Still in my makeup at half past two... wanting to shake the feeling of you.

I adore You. Caps lock. Deliberate use on Y. I didn't mean to, or even want to, but I do and now you love another one. Damn. Is it because I'm fat? Tonight... today. Forever. I am the Lady of Shallot, I stare into that mirror but instead of the world I simply see everything wrong with me. And there is a lot, too much to bore this blog with, I'll probably touch on it at some future point anyway.

The lady of shallot stares into a broken mirror that reflects the world, undermined because if she sees this world in reality, she'll die.

And I suppose... I am like that. I reflect all of my thoughts onto others; such as... Innundate. If I take her to my house, my Mum will see just another middle class yuppie expressing emotion through song. She'll hate her and think I'm a loser for hanging around her.

Innundate will think that my family hates her and is unreceptive to change.

See. Both my views, reflected in Innundate and family, and probably not what they would actually think at all. My family would think what an interesting, lovely girl Innundate is. And Innundate would think how... how rural? No. Too overt in patronisation. How very... jovial. And I don't know what else. Maybe she would only patronise because her Mother never could be jovial or homely or interesting, so she'd better patronise instead of seem lacking.

Oh, my love, though our bodies may be parted, though our skin may not touch skin.

I am not a stalker. I am not kidding myself, in any recesses of my mind, that she would ever want me back. The wanting is all mine. I do disgust myself, I am the head rat in The Rats, spawning horror and making it return to my flaccid white belly that is encased in a layer, a shell, a crustacean of filth.

Why is it that all I can think of is how horrendous I am and how I want her?

Because she made you briefly seem not so horrific. I don't know the other, but bear in mind you were like this with the other two. It'll take time, is all.

I've actually stayed within my count for today. Not that it makes any difference to the girth of my flaccid, white belly.

It might eventually. If I hadn't imbibed quite so much.

I can feel my thigh and knee flesh against each other.

The other thing is too horrible to think of (failing at the degree, the only thing you've ever been halfway decent at, and hence failing at life, from then on, failing to ever be happy). So.

You're so naive; you're so.

I'm not even going to bother recording eating today because I've ingested alchol and henceforth an infinite calorific content.

Note the punctuation on that title.

So.

I saw her today and it was awkward. I haven't apologised. I must tomorrow. When I cuddle... hug... all these words sound stupid... her I must not show I miss her so.

I worked out today that sometimes even the coolest looking people do and say things to make themselves look good. The key is simplicity. To ridding yourself of that shit. Like, one of my friends went, "oh, this girl sat for half an hour absorbing the end of our play"... then was amazed at an apple mac's technology, when really who gives a tiny rats ass when there are people dying of hunger in the third world? Yeah, we're all dying all the time, but surely through death we should be trying to make the lives of everyone else better. Anyway, he couldn't ever have meant the first statement because he did the second... how can you care about reception of what you consider to be artistic genius when you are so worked up on a shitty piece of plastic that produces effects you could see for real, in a puddle?


And people didn't leave a party because they wanted to be seen as hardcore or something, or to be in a group. Well, cliques that are cliquey are shit. I don't mean that though... some are worth entering. Like that exclusive clique for two I once thought I was in.

Ho hum. An albino salamander, native to only two places in Mexico, captive in Great Britain in the capital of gun crime, not even bothering to fight for its life.

A girl so intent on being interesting and likeable she forgets to be interesting and likeable.

A group of people so intent on fitting out they fit in to those who fit out.

A woman wanting to give but having the receptor taken.

I love.... electric fans and men's broken bans
yeats, Keats, Blake, Coleridge and Shakespeare
Her. I like.
My friends.
My... nothing.
Drawing.
I don't know.

Tales and tales.

Eating today:

Sausage sandwich (vegetarian, pick off crusts) (350)
salad and carrot cake (93+292=380)
pesto and tortellini (400)
15g chocolate (75)
6 dates (60)
options hot chocolate (40)

Not good enough to lose weight like I want to. Weird, such a small looking amount of food.... I'm glad about the salad discovery though. So, totted up... 100, 175, 575, 955, 1300. Not so bad as I thought, actually. And I did a walk today as well, to University and back. I started to feel thinner today, but then I walked and my jeans felt tighter than they should do... these used to be huge jeans.

Tomorrow I will meet a final deadline with some work that is completely shit. And they will know it. And my friends will know it. Which I feel shamed for.

I just finished Salman Rushdie's Shame. It started slowly, but by the end I was devouring it akin to the manner of its eponymous heroine. I loved it, I love myths and mythology and folklore. Anthropology. Really, if we all construct our own lives, and if we all have our own tales, our lives are myths. Mine would be.... Icarus? I don't know.

There was once a little girl, given all she could wish for. Her parents loved her, and cherished her, and made her into the best they could, whittling her like a piece of wood with loving care. Ensuring she never became too greedy or too self consumed, until so old, and then they let her free. The perfect child, created to be perfect, was tested on the world to see if she truly was perfect, like a paper model, able to stand alone. And the perfect child blew back over and landed in a puddle, which dried and dampened with the contractual rays of the sun, greying and dirtying her bleached white shine until she became grey like everyone else.

That is none too happy a tale. That is not really my life. Whittling is a bad word for the description; they gave, they didn't take away. And I didn't fall in a puddle; no, I am not at the best university, I am not thin, she does not want me... but I have friends. I am acting, I am at a good university, I am financially independent, I am not morbidly obese, I am in full health. That is of consequence, that is important. I am not homeless... I am housed, thanks to my own financial management.

So

There was a girl who loved so much she could not bear to disappoint and pushed away the three she loved, one after the other, so that she would not disappoint them nor they her.
She settled for less. She tired easily of the first, wearing him thin, the second, she desired still after the culmination, the third, saw straight through her layers to within and despised her. So she despised herself.

That is not true. Or it is, yes, well. I don't know. It probably is.

Once upon a time a beautiful fairy was born who had the power to change into anything. And decided it was best to be just her.

I wish this was true.

I am no fairytale heroine
I cannot bend you to my whim
Nor sing mellifluous hymns
Or dance as stones on water skim

I, with visage undefined,
Figure so very misaligned
Attire that a jester shunned
Sleepless eyes a bed interred

Insomniac nights and wakeless days
Ridiculous fits of ludic brays
When comes my saviour to this house?
When I am ready, above all else.

Divine decadence, what I lack, work work work picks up the slack.

Eating today:

Fried egg bread (1 egg, semi skimmed milk, 2 slices of bread, piece of butter) (450)
a maryland cookie (50)
20g plain chocolate (100)
a double decker chocolate bar (275)
leftover vegetable stir fry (125)
apple and peanut butter (200)

1200! Yes. And I did a walk. I was OK yesterday as well. University is so much better for me. Purpose is better for me.

I do think I still want her a bit because I've got this morbid fascination with what she's doing with her new person. Ugh. I am such a stalker. But... nontheless. Slowly, slowly, I am ridding myself of it. And I will be tiny and perfect. Still rejected, but I will feel better that there is less cause to reject me, though I know rejection was not because of how I looked but because of the way I was. And she will.... will what? Say "oh, look, you are small, I love you now!". Of course not. I must stop being so utterly pathetic. Anyway, I shall never be short. Unless I get my kneecaps knocked off.

My period has started today. I slept till two in the afternoon as well. I did some work in the library. I fulfilled my calorie allowance. I have not had a shower. I feel a layer of grease and grime coating me with desiderata. I do not know what desiderata means. Ha, I looked it up, "a poem or essay on attaining happiness in life". I thought it meant debris, dust, of an academic nature, such as the mould that collects on books and other academia.

I want to grow into one of those birdlike old ladies that wear dead looking hats and are always pick-pecking at something, whose eyes are bright. I want to be one of those, that travels the world in a perspicacious manner then comes back at weekends to feed her cat and lunch with friends. Who hits burglars with her umbrella and puts the world to rights and rides motorbikes. I will wear bright clothes that startle foes, and hats and tights to bring delights. I don't want to be a moaner. Loner.

Queen of the Nile, serpentine
Fed on fruits of dark blood wine
Langorous upon a golden bower
Rowed by slaves, decaying hour
Brief sunrise, over cheeks has passed
Night brings truth: nothing lasts
Ephemeral skin adorned by jewels
Evanescent and knowing, surrounded by fools.

I don't know where I was going with that one. I just thought of Cleopatra, getting older, on a float with her slaves. I always write so darkly, I don't know why. It hasn't even got a message. The images don't mean anything. Humph. Why can't I write anything good?

Ashley X

I don't know what to think anymore about the case of Ashley X.

For reference, she has had her uterus and breasts removed, and doses of oestrogen to give her the body of a child. Her mental capacity is said to be that of a three month old baby. Her growth was stunted to make her life more comfortable.

The reasons that it should be done are in order to give comfort to Ashley X herself. This is the main argument I can see for the case; not to make her easier to care for, but to have a better quality of life. As a child, she is less likely to contract bed sores and blood diseases, infections... and, like it or not, she will be easier to care for so she won't be as vulnerable to these types of infections.

Of course it is wrong to take away someone's potential to develop into an adult. But it is by no means the worst thing you could do to them; it would be worse, surely, to let her suffer in having a body that was susceptible to ache and pain? I'm not necessarily referring to period pain, but the ageing pains that are so prolific among adults, and would possibly be worse in someone with cerebral palsy. And, whilst her uterus has been removed, I don't believe her clitoris has; this would be mutilation. I'm not quite sure why the uterus was removed; as a sterilisation precaution? Couldn't the ovaries have been removed on their own?

The comparisons to Nazi-ism I find vaguely hysterical in their approach. We must remember that the parents are doing what is in the best interests of their child, to make her more comfortable. The Nazis sterilized disabled people so they could not create the next generation of disabled people; Ashley's chose to sterilize her because they wanted to protect her.

This being said, I'm not sure she should have been sterilized. Delayed development is all very well; it's like having a necessary operation for your future comfort. Sterilization... yes, she might not use her uterus but that doesn't mean she shouldn't have it. None of us use our appendixes, they're completely useless, but we don't all have them chopped out in case of infection. Having said that, women have hysterectomies all the time (albeit with their consent) and don't find it particularly detrimental.

The main question for me is not a flagration of human rights, but more about how comfortable society is with disabled people being sexual beings. I appreciate that most of society will share the view that those free of mental impairment will have sexual urges as everyone else does. But does a childs mind in an adult body still have the same urges, or is it too confusing and harmful to that individual? Ultimately, it does depend on the individual. I can't help feeling, however, that in this case, the right decision has been made for Ashley X.

Rosemary, heaven restores you in life.

Today was a good day for two reasons. One is social interaction- people are coming back to University and the friends I saw were very happy to see me. That's always a boost. And I think I'm under my calorie allowance, or at least on it, which is so good because I went to the pub with my housemates and we usually drink. So, consumption today is as follows:

A big biscuit (300)
Tortellini and pesto (400)
two oranges (40)
two maryland choc chip cookies (100)
beans on toast with cheese - 2 slices toast, 160 cals, 1/2 can heinz baked no sugar no salt beans, 140 cals, cheese, mature low fat, 50 cals(350)
a piece of chocolate (10g) (50)

so... 1240. That is good, for me! I feel good about myself now. And my friends make me feel good, because if they want to spend time with me I must not be as horrendous as I believe I am. It also makes me stop wondering what she thinks of me, I do worry too much.

I like walking around. I like my music. I like... being under my calorie allowance. I said in my profile I wanted to write as if I was a different person every day. Well, that won't happen if I'm continually calorie fixated. I should leave off and just try to eat as little as possible, but I know if I don't log it I won't be able to control it. And then I'll get fat. Freedom or fatdom? Which one? To live free of food obligation, or to live trapped in my own corpulent fat kingdom?

I feel I have lost my muse. When I am besotted, I can write things that are not good, but I have at least got a vent. I feel as if there is no muse anymore. I can't use my friends, but I don't know why. I doodle little pictures. But I need words too. I need to practise using them. So I shall write a passage. Not about being besotted, I have had enough. Enough of that, my lord, you mar all this with your starting (just a line that popped into my head from one of my favourite plays).

She's got the glim, vigour and vim, black magic runs under watery skin.

I think... I think I might be over her. Just snap, like that, when I realised I liked her... but she maybe wasn't the one. I am jealous she has found new love first, but then again I am a jealous person and used to being romantically inept. I don't suppose I'll like anyone else for a while (non platonically) but I can deal with that. It was like a slow dulling of pain, till it became a small bolus in the back of my throat. A relief from the socking great wedge that was there before. I'm even a little bit glad she can be happy, if pissed off she lied to me about liking me in the first place. But I suppose she couldn't have done anything else.

One of my wondrous teachers is getting an MBE. This makes me very happy, knowing he will be rewarded for... well, I assume his teaching career. Though I am virulently anti monarchy. I shall write to him and tell him congratulations. Maybe with a card.

Eating today:

2 cookies (big fuck off ones) (600)
pesto and pasta (400)
apple (40)
some bean salad (130)
chocolate (200)
vodka and coke (100)

That is... shit, but not as bad as yesterday. So, well done me for improving. Less than 1600, so... hopefully I've created a deficit. I didn't eat when I got back from the pub. Fucking hell, why the chocolate? Tomorrow I will do some exercise and do better. Fatty excuses piss me off. Which is what I am making.

I watched a documentary on obese texans. Anything to do with extreme weights, or weight issues, fascinates me. Anyway, one woman was about 42 stone, I worked out. 645lbs. About four times what I weigh. And she had (or at least, maintained a facade of) being truly happy with herself. Power to her. But I thought that she was putting an unnecessary strain on health services, or was bound to in the future, and that you shouldn't be so delusional when you couldn't walk. I know people say the same about health for the dangerously thin, but they tend to at least die quietly of their heart attacks, and most are mobile up till the end. How can you be happy when you lose basic mobility, or are that uncomfortable, and know you've brought it upon yourself? She thought she looked hot in a black mesh body suit. To be fair, she had a point. Would I rather be obese with high self esteem or thin with low? As long as I was mobile. I like to think I'd pick being happy, because that is what I want. But being thin is something I've always wanted, from a small child. I felt people would look at me with wonder and amazement if I was a tiny dot, that was how it went in books and in real life. I was short and round, and definitely not pretty. But short at least. Then I grew, and now I seem to loom over everyone, which is disheartening. Like Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities.

My romantic ponderings are as follows. I want someone who I like that likes me back, properly. So. The ponderings are as follows:
My friend's housemate, who could be best characterised as portly gentleman. He is lovely, clever, larger than me... shy. Tender and shy.
My best friend from home. I always assumed he and I would end up together, because we get on so well and have the same interests. We understand each other. There is affinity, where I know he is arrogant and I am too stupid, but it is there. He, however, has a german girlfriend. I am glad she is not pretty. This makes me a bad person. I know, deep down, that maybe I can win him. He got tipsy on new year and laid his head in my lap.
Jewish gay man. He is also intelligent, a bit snotty, moody; gay. However, I did have a crush on him. He is good looking. I like that he says, "that's so funny" deadpan, instead of laughing. And sometimes if we go out and I am wearing a low cut dress he will kiss my bare back, little butterfly kisses. So maybe he is not so gay after all.

There are no women on the horizon. I can't think of any at the moment that are even remote possibilities. I don't think any of the men are either, but it is nice to hypothesise.

Fatty acts upon her born again christian chums.

No work done today, but I moved some of my things back to university so that was an accomplishment.

I ate

A cookie (300)
some bean stuff (50)
pasta and tuna and cucumber (I didn't binge it, I managed to save some to throw away) (400)
A happy hippo (they will be the death of me) (125)
2 sweets (75)
vegetable bake and cabbage (300)
2 biscuits (160)
eight sweets (300)

1700. That is really bad. I didn't think it was too bad, but evidently it is. Shit. Fatty that is stupid and does no work, and will soon be mired in debt if she doesn't get her finger out and get a job.

My house felt really desolate today at university. It was very bare, noone was there and there was no noise. It was cold. It had no appliances and none of my housemates. I can't wait till they get back too. My home house never is, because there is always someone in it. Though I do prefer being at university, it must be said, because more goes on and my friends are all about. My things are neat there, I have got private space, I have got control.

I want to go back now and be there for a day. To settle in.

But I also feel guilty at leaving my family; they are happy for me to go, but their reaction on my coming home, "oh, the family is whole again!" says it all; I feel that I'm abandoning them when I leave. They want me to go and have a good time though.

I am a bit freaked out by my calorific consumption today. That is really, really bad. It's when its over 1500 I freak; 1200 is bad enough. I keep thinking, maybe the pasta wasn't four hundred, but it probably was. I ate an apple too. And a third of a happy hippo. Which bumps it up to 1800. I'll not lose weight if I keep going like this.

Reading my last post, I know I won't ever be petite. I'll always be tall and broad. But if I was thinner, maybe I'd look shorter? Maybe she'd like me if I was shorter. Maybe she likes petite girls. Maybe....

Maybe nothing.

That isn't the reason she got rid of me. Physical imperfections don't matter a jot if you truly like someone. It was intrinsically me. I must stop obsessing.

So let me take a wander somewhere enjoyable. I am... in a play. I have got my script. I am reading three poems by Eve Ensler. They are sad. I am excited. Someone wanted me for this part. I beat competition to get it.

I am not a christian and managed to challenge two born-agains today on their beliefs. They tried to prophecy for me ("LIKE FORTUNE TELLING BUT DEVIL FREE"). Their words, not mine. I think that if there is such a thing as god, an omniescent being won't be too fussed about what denomination you are; it's more on whether you're a good person or not, which is not at all related to church attendance. Or anywhere else attendance. Religion is the opiate of the masses; expecting someone else to absolve you of whatever you've done wrong is shit. They were completely wrong about me; they thought I was musical (I can't carry a tune to save my life) that at some point I'd have to make a decision on religion (well, doesn't everyone?), that I've had affairs with married men (never), that I'm a student (yes, but from my appearance and the fact that I was in tesco on a schoolday... what else would I be?) and that I had issues with my father. None of these are true; my Dad is wonderful. Both my parents are- I whine about them, but they are wonderful. Accepting, progressive, generous but not to a ludicrous extent, very cool. They always do their utmost for us, and are always honest with us. So that was one in the eye for them. They offered to buy me coffee but I was scared they'd have spiked it. It was interesting to converse with people with such opposite beliefs to mine, and I sharpened my ready wit (ha) on them. They were creationists, and I fell back on Darwinism. They rubbished Buddhism, I told them my opinions on what god wanted. They were a good sharpener; I do like to sharpen my intellect on the christians.

Blah blah blah

Bombazine doll (I need a new epiteth) definitely does like someone else, the girl I whined about with musical skill and dark curly hair. And all those other fantastic attributes in which I am sadly lacking. Ugh. The whole affair is just redolent of ugh. That is the only noise I can make about how I feel about the whole thing, and how stupid I feel in general. Just so stupid not to realise she didn't like me like that. I feel so angry and jealous and disgusted with myself for feeling like that.

All that which in me I abhor, holds me tight to what went before....

So I'll trickle back into dieting in the hope that when she sees me again I'll be a tiny petite little thing and she'll pity me and hold me, and I will be able to be what I want because who can hate someone with a perfect figure?

That is all complete bullshit, and I know it. Well, really I must not know it at all to be thinking it, must I?

I went on a walk today and shouted some poetry into bleak urban landscape, which is incredibly pretentious. But noone heard and it felt good to scream some Sylvia Plath, a bit of Coleridge. Some Eurythmics, haha. Before falling on my arse in mud and scratching my back with brambles. I waved to a farmer who didn't really see me. I sprang over tufts of sodden grass and watched each tiny metal carriage on the carriageway drift by not knowing a girl in the field was jumping and singing and living. I trailed down an embankment and slid, I hopped over tree falls and crept through witchways covered over with bony grey brittle branches that caught at my coat and begged me to stay. I checked behind me in case they were holding me hostage, and mused that as a child, I never thought of the bottles on the floor as being for drug use. I didn't think that they were because people loved fizzy drinks; I just didn't think. I looked to see if junkies desperate for a fix or some rape were following me and carried on. The wind blew my hair back into my eyes. I am always hindering myself. I followed a dirty brook and thought how I fit into this landscape; these fields so close to polluting motorway that reclaim bits of it anyway, this permanent contradiction where one is always trying to take over the other. I liked it. On a bridge near an industrial park, bridging the wild (I call it wild, it is just fields and trees and half stiles in mud) there were brambles over a road block. Weeds. Weeds will tear you down and scratch away artifice, once humanity is gone, I am sure of it. It made me feel better.

I ate:

a breakfast (mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, a sausage, a potato thing) (300)

six minstrels and a happy hippo (175)

a crumpet and a potato cake (300)

some pasta and bean (100)

some thai curry (300)

a happy hippo (125)

an apple (40)

a light mocha frappucino (100)

a biscuit (60)

1500 exactly. Still too much, but I'll go to uni and be away from all this ridiculous food. I always feel it is more than I write, I must begin a food diary. This is almost one.

My Mum talked to me today about how my sister has put on weight. She won't say anything to her, just encourage her to make healthy food choices. I can't see she has, but apparently her clothes are getting tighter. She's ten. She's always been a bit chubby, but not obese or anything. I don't think you can do anything about it when you're a kid- you are or aren't fat. She is, but she'll slim out. And she's pretty so she doesn't have to worry so much. I was fat and ugly, still am. Shame. I think she'll work out that healthy food encouragement is because she's getting bigger- I think I did. And also that that'll bug her, because she probably will eat healthily in an attempt to lose weight but not lose any because she's fated to be chubby till she's thirteenish, like me and my brother did (yes, I am still fat but not as fat as I was). I remember my parents never believing I ran round at playtime, though I did, as much as my skinny friends, and even then I knew it was because I was fat. I don't want my sister to know. I don't know how I can be a good role model for her. She saw me lose lots of weight and get lots of attention. She saw me put it back on, and probably people say things behind my back. The best I'm doing is not being critical of myself and using fat as a descriptive as opposed to in the perjorative form. But it must seep through- all children absorb their elder's self esteem. I don't want her to absorb mine!

Last Year.

Well, it was a big year. Now it is over and I can be another person completely this year. This year I will be my own person, because whatever you think about yourself you can make other people think too. I have found this.

I want to sort out my weight. If I could sort that I could stand looking like I do.

I want to start making clothes of my own.

I want to get my hands on some power. And position.

I want to be clever again.

I will do all of these things. I will stop being so pathetic.

I went to a New Year's party and it was good, all of my friends at home were there and it was just lovely to get drunk around them, let off fireworks, take my friend's dog for a walk at five. All stupid things. Dress in fancy dress. Play cards and charades. Dance in a disco glasshouse (not so cool as it sounds).

I am excited that I am in the Vagina Monologues- I got the script not so very long ago. Mine is really tragic- yes, it is unashamedly feminist but I think my bit will bring the whole play down... it's a set of three poems about Baghdad and shit. I wonder if the director had me in mind for that, and why he had me in mind for the Vagina Monologues at all? Did he look at me and assume that, because I am butch looking and pretty blunt, I'd be a good choice? Or did he think I was a whinger because I was in a fairly sepulchral play before? I wonder if I disappointed him at the audition? I wonder if he's changed roles for me after seeing my other performances? Worry worry worry.

I still crave her a little bit. I am so stupid. I thought out of sight out of mind, but that isn't true. Bombazine doll. She isn't. Why won't she talk to me anymore? It's maddening to just be cut out of someone's life. Like some kind of verruca, a foot fungus. Whine whine whine.

I am going to write ten things you might not have known about me.

1. I like starbucks, despite knowing it stands for capitalism and being a complete rip off... I can't tear myself away from that caffeine hit.

2. I'm the first person in my nuclear family to move out of my home town.

3. When I was little, I used to want to be asian. Indian. I also used to want to be a boy, a twin and someone who could converse freely with animals. Too much Enid Blyton, methinks.

4. I get a tickly hot panic feeling in my stomach when some item of clothing, especially just purchased ones, are too tight. Because I know what my mothers reaction will be (shouldn't you have got that in the next size up?) and secretly, I know she is right.

5. I cover my walls in pictures I've drawn and pictures from magazines I like.

6. One day, I might like to have children.

7. The friend I've had since primary school has a different life to me. Completely- I am in higher education, which is partly paid for by my parents, having been encouraged all my life. She has got a baby, a job in childcare, a boyfriend she's settled for but who is lovely and a penchant for too many hairstyling products. She never eats vegetables, I went through a phase when I didn't eat anything else. We are only different because, despite living up the road from each other, we have got completely different parents. I'm glad I had mine. She had every bit as much potential as I did, more, but they didn't bother to eke it out of her.

8. My friends consider me minimalist, possessions wise, but my parents think I've got far too much clutter. Despite being able to cram it into a tiny room and still have the room spick and span.

9. Given the choice, I would love nothing more than to travel round the world, compiling a series of myths and tales from various countries and meeting new people, seeing new things and possibly taking some friends.

10. Despite doing a language course, I've no idea if what I write is any good or not. Similar theories apply to many of my endeavours.