Size fourteen leggings don't make me happy.

My mother says they look nice on me, but I am rankling at the idea of defeat- I should be wearing size twelve, ten, eight, not size fourteen. I am disgusted with myself and she is happy at my choice of clothing that I had no choice in really at all.

Sometimes I do wonder if I am schizophrenic.

I write this at work, it's a rainy day. If someone peers in through the pane of glass at my window, they can see a red haired girl (woman) in a pair of black culottes, black tights and a cashmere white jumper, shrunken in the washing machine that used to belong to her mother. She hasn't bothered with makeup today and her skin looks dull and blotchy, jewellery is also absent. She sometimes straightens her posture, or takes a swig of water from her bottle. I am very bored, and boring probably.