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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.