I usually write about her. Well, I write about what she gave me. The fluttering glim of feeling that welled in my stomach from the site where she first touched, and so on and so on, a loose loop of idiom and metaphor, god knows what else thrown in.
Or I write about calories.
It appears that I crave the impossible, or what I cannot have, but surely this is a normative human state; our reason for being is to accumulate. Not necessarily material goods, but love, or respect, or whatever we crave. A good figure, and her, in my case. Intelligence wouldn't be too bad either.
I am so much more than this, and I wish I could show myself as I truly am. Usually, I am happy, or doing something, never discussing my weight; it is a scheherezade, a dance of the seven veils, always haunting me night after night. When I awake, a cursory glance suggests I'm not so bad, but at night I have swollen, become a flaccid mess. Removal of my maquillage doesn't aid this. By night, I am a gorgon. Daily? I cover, I veil, albeit thinly.
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Fieldmice, headlice, spiders in the kitchen.
Today's consumption:
a sausage batch (400)
pic and mix (100g, liquorice allsorts and brazil nuts) (400)
an apple (30)
two tangerines (30)
tortellini and pesto (400)
hot chocolate (40)
1300. And I walked, a little, and went to rehearsals. They started off very badly; my part is smaller than I believed, and the narcissist in me dislikes that. But today I felt that my cast isn't as stuck up as I thought they were. I hate that I am the tallest and fattest girl, and the fattest generally. I suppose this could change by May; not height, but size. I despise warm up routines that involve touching others or running about because I think this accentuates my flab. I just measured myself; in inches, 36-29-39. Height still five feet eight. Bust, waist, hips. My waist was far smaller. And it is depressing that my bust is far smaller than my hips, I wish I could change this measurement.
What else? I was able to contribute to a literary discussion even though I hadn't read the literature, so that was another day of feeling clever for me. Till my rehearsals, when I felt fat and it obliterated the clever feeling. I dislike the idea that other people can see this mass flabbing around, and judge me on it. Then, the other good thing was that my cast is pleasant. What else? I'm not as fat as I could be; but nor am I as thin as I could be. I kept within my calorie quota.
I was going to type up something I wrote, but it is too embarrassingly bad, even for this page. Instead. I shall write a descriptive something, because otherwise the number of posts will affect my triskaidekaphobia.
a sausage batch (400)
pic and mix (100g, liquorice allsorts and brazil nuts) (400)
an apple (30)
two tangerines (30)
tortellini and pesto (400)
hot chocolate (40)
1300. And I walked, a little, and went to rehearsals. They started off very badly; my part is smaller than I believed, and the narcissist in me dislikes that. But today I felt that my cast isn't as stuck up as I thought they were. I hate that I am the tallest and fattest girl, and the fattest generally. I suppose this could change by May; not height, but size. I despise warm up routines that involve touching others or running about because I think this accentuates my flab. I just measured myself; in inches, 36-29-39. Height still five feet eight. Bust, waist, hips. My waist was far smaller. And it is depressing that my bust is far smaller than my hips, I wish I could change this measurement.
What else? I was able to contribute to a literary discussion even though I hadn't read the literature, so that was another day of feeling clever for me. Till my rehearsals, when I felt fat and it obliterated the clever feeling. I dislike the idea that other people can see this mass flabbing around, and judge me on it. Then, the other good thing was that my cast is pleasant. What else? I'm not as fat as I could be; but nor am I as thin as I could be. I kept within my calorie quota.
I was going to type up something I wrote, but it is too embarrassingly bad, even for this page. Instead. I shall write a descriptive something, because otherwise the number of posts will affect my triskaidekaphobia.
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Pretensions and extensions of reality
Damn. I just deleted this post. Suffice it to say that it rambled about consumption (1320 calories today) and that I need to eat breakfast.
I also spoke of her, how I felt slightly less idiotic today but found that her adorer is in a relationship, according to a web design. It is probably with her. This solidifies what I already suspected, long suspected. I hate that now it is real and that my paranoid ramblings were accurate. But we are friends, she laughs with me once more, we are no longer awkward and this platonic vein can run strong.
I spoke of an acquaintance I once shunned, and now he appears to shun me for my own pretentiousness. I am pretentious, I suppose.
I wrote of Tess Of D'Urbevilles. Interesting, that Alec bastardises her name, that old money name with his corrupted city new money, then visits the sin of the fathers on the innocent Tess, and takes her for his wife in the end. She kills him, but in killing him she brings about her own death. To wipe away the smirch of his new money, all must be obliterated. Tess is old money, vulgarized but nontheless innocent. A marxist reading is more interesting and less plaintive than the feminist, I sometimes find.
I also spoke of her, how I felt slightly less idiotic today but found that her adorer is in a relationship, according to a web design. It is probably with her. This solidifies what I already suspected, long suspected. I hate that now it is real and that my paranoid ramblings were accurate. But we are friends, she laughs with me once more, we are no longer awkward and this platonic vein can run strong.
I spoke of an acquaintance I once shunned, and now he appears to shun me for my own pretentiousness. I am pretentious, I suppose.
I wrote of Tess Of D'Urbevilles. Interesting, that Alec bastardises her name, that old money name with his corrupted city new money, then visits the sin of the fathers on the innocent Tess, and takes her for his wife in the end. She kills him, but in killing him she brings about her own death. To wipe away the smirch of his new money, all must be obliterated. Tess is old money, vulgarized but nontheless innocent. A marxist reading is more interesting and less plaintive than the feminist, I sometimes find.
Monday, 26 February 2007
Beauty and the beast. Once, you said, looking into a mirror. And both knew which was which.
Calorific crap:
half a bowl of bran flakes and raisins (150)
a chicken thai wrap (250)
a vegetable stir fry (150)
sultanas (50)
two shortcake caramel squares (400)
meatballs and cranberry sauce and spinach (100g) (200)
I cannot shake the feeling that I ate something else, but I run through the contents of my cupboard in my mind and refute the evidence. Sultanas only it was. So today I am on target, and I have done the walk twice, which means I have created a deficit. I am still fat. I am still overweight, but now I know that I can, and I can tomorrow and the day after and the day after that as well.
My room is clear, though not clean, I need a dustpan and brush. I organised my draws tonight; they are neatly colour coded and folded. This is my favourite way for things to be.
I saw her again today. She does not want to spend excessive time with me because I bore her? Because I am not pretty? Not naturally pretty, that was what she said. Well, no. I twist. Her words were, "I like girls who don't know they're beautiful". Why must everyone subscribe to a rural idyll? What is it about artifice that is so ugly? If I do not look as I wish, why shouldn't I put on my ivory concealer and black mascara to make myself into what I wish? I draw on cheekbones and erase blemishes and spots. Artifice is what we are all doing all the time; if any of us cared to be truly au naturel, we'd stuff our faces and walk about in warm ponchos as well as never concealing our true feelings. But other's opinions count, nobody wants to be exiled from the protection of the herd, and they drive us towards appearing healthy, which is in nature's state. But e'en in that, there is some fakeness; it's this drive for dewy natural moisture that sends women to cosmetic surgeons begging to be facially poisoned and inexpressive so that they can look naturally young.
I suppose there is no difference in my application of makeup and these tautened and ageless creatures, only that I feel I am making up for myself and they for everyone else. Really, both categories are making up so that we can feel that what others believe of us is admiring. I, for example, would rather be the bone white rail thin girl that everyone worries about than the girl everyone thinks is immensley attractive, because I would know then that no matter what I would never be considered coarse. They want never to drop their presentation, never to be considered cluttered or lived in. There are no different motives, just differing perceptions of what beauty is.
I like my artifice. I need it. She, bombazine doll's intended, probably does not. Or she is too confident to need it. I wish I was naturally and innocently beautiful, but it is not the way. I must strive to be thin, strive for my face. It is naturally masculine, much to my malign. If I could choose any face, I would be Marchesa Luisa Casati, or Elyse Sewell, if I am forced to make my contemporary choices. I am obsessed with beauty; because if I can blame my face, the rest of me is exempt? No, not at all. I pause from a tirade on my countenance and move onwards to my behaviour, my acting skills, my intelligence; all reason enough for her not to love me. When I know that, put parsimoniously, she never was in love with me and that is all.
half a bowl of bran flakes and raisins (150)
a chicken thai wrap (250)
a vegetable stir fry (150)
sultanas (50)
two shortcake caramel squares (400)
meatballs and cranberry sauce and spinach (100g) (200)
I cannot shake the feeling that I ate something else, but I run through the contents of my cupboard in my mind and refute the evidence. Sultanas only it was. So today I am on target, and I have done the walk twice, which means I have created a deficit. I am still fat. I am still overweight, but now I know that I can, and I can tomorrow and the day after and the day after that as well.
My room is clear, though not clean, I need a dustpan and brush. I organised my draws tonight; they are neatly colour coded and folded. This is my favourite way for things to be.
I saw her again today. She does not want to spend excessive time with me because I bore her? Because I am not pretty? Not naturally pretty, that was what she said. Well, no. I twist. Her words were, "I like girls who don't know they're beautiful". Why must everyone subscribe to a rural idyll? What is it about artifice that is so ugly? If I do not look as I wish, why shouldn't I put on my ivory concealer and black mascara to make myself into what I wish? I draw on cheekbones and erase blemishes and spots. Artifice is what we are all doing all the time; if any of us cared to be truly au naturel, we'd stuff our faces and walk about in warm ponchos as well as never concealing our true feelings. But other's opinions count, nobody wants to be exiled from the protection of the herd, and they drive us towards appearing healthy, which is in nature's state. But e'en in that, there is some fakeness; it's this drive for dewy natural moisture that sends women to cosmetic surgeons begging to be facially poisoned and inexpressive so that they can look naturally young.
I suppose there is no difference in my application of makeup and these tautened and ageless creatures, only that I feel I am making up for myself and they for everyone else. Really, both categories are making up so that we can feel that what others believe of us is admiring. I, for example, would rather be the bone white rail thin girl that everyone worries about than the girl everyone thinks is immensley attractive, because I would know then that no matter what I would never be considered coarse. They want never to drop their presentation, never to be considered cluttered or lived in. There are no different motives, just differing perceptions of what beauty is.
I like my artifice. I need it. She, bombazine doll's intended, probably does not. Or she is too confident to need it. I wish I was naturally and innocently beautiful, but it is not the way. I must strive to be thin, strive for my face. It is naturally masculine, much to my malign. If I could choose any face, I would be Marchesa Luisa Casati, or Elyse Sewell, if I am forced to make my contemporary choices. I am obsessed with beauty; because if I can blame my face, the rest of me is exempt? No, not at all. I pause from a tirade on my countenance and move onwards to my behaviour, my acting skills, my intelligence; all reason enough for her not to love me. When I know that, put parsimoniously, she never was in love with me and that is all.
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
Am I too dirty, am I too flirty, do I not like what you like?
Nutrition based waste of space:
tortellini and tomato puree (400)
sultanas (50)
salmon, yoghurt and spinach on a slice of toast (400)
sultanas (50)
an options hot chocolate (40)
porridge, sultanas, yoghurt. (400)
Ok. So 1340. If it goes down a little bit every day, that's good. I can see that I need more fruit, but it seems pointless to buy it when I won't be here the day after tomorrow.
Scoprophilic accounts.
I learnt that word the other day. It means to derive pleasure from looking. We're all scoprophiliacs, unless you're blind.
I thought of the start of a song about a girl who wants to become a page three girl today:
Plain Jane on a quest for fame
She'd already be rich, but the mirror disdains
So she slathers on tan and begins the refrain
Make up, make out, make every day the same.
Stumbling out of a hackney on a friday night
Hacks write that she's a total sight
But nothing compares to the ubiquitous fright
Of the line, "you're too old love, no, not tonight".
And maybe she resembles love's young dream
Though in real life she'd make you want to scream
Looks more like a businessman in drag
A good little sell, a clapped out old slag.
If you're going into the vending of flesh
Why contemplate a philosophical mess?
You'll earn more easier lying on your back
Than posing vacuously and taking the rap.
I don't know about that... I think it could be better. It's a bit Tess Of D'Urbervilles inspired. Not that she ever ran off and became a page three girl. Tess is fairly self-flagellating, but I suppose that's what you get when your parents are alcoholics. And you're a product of a chauvinist society, which also happens to be class ridden. She had the odds stacked against her from the start. It was always to be, Hardy says. Show me the child at seven, I'll show you a man, or so the saying goes.
I had a dilemma today over whether to put Beth Ditto on my wall. I think she's fantastic, and I really like her views; however, I'm not so enamoured with her music. The only fatties on my walls at the moment are Stephen Fry and two of myself. Helen Mirren, playing Shakespeare's Cleopatra (a role I covet) is by no means fat, but her BMI is normal, I'd say. Beth Ditto would even out my wall's weight complex. But I didn't put her up, even so. She wasn't wearing amazing clothes, which is atypical; when she is, she's going up there. My own wishes are refracted back at me all day. And I won't ever measure up. My felt tips are running out, and consequently all the things I draw have to have blue hair. Today has been a boring day.
I like her and I like him. My bombazine doll is off elsewhere, obviously, as she was never really mine. She loves someone else and never loved me. That is not fine. I wish I knew for certain; I am roughly ninety percent sure. The girl she is in love with (the one I think she is in love with, for all I know it could be someone else. Not me) is dark haired and fiery eyed, self confident, witty, they click. I am jealous beyond belief. It was something she said a while ago, "I love it when people don't know they're beautiful". Well, that would be this girl. She's what you'd call handsome, or beautiful. She's tall, and maybe fatter than me. Is she? See, I know it's ridiculous comparing myself but I can almost feel I've won. I can't win anywhere else, you see. She's got that list of complementary adjectives and I have got a mannish physique and a diminished intellect.
He is mine; I love the feeling with men that you have them completely in your thrall. I did get a little tingle with him. He's not different; I know I've got the upper hand. With her it was scary, I felt like she knew everything, as if I couldn't hide from her laser gaze. I know that I can unveil myself to him sheet by sheet; I feel less embarrassed by sex because he doesn't know anything else about me, if that makes sense. I can pretend to be clever, or learned, or anything I want. Self-confident. Witholding information is where I draw my power from, which makes the reader of this blog deific. I like him. I wish I had a bit more time to develop a craving for him. Maybe it will come. Maybe not. Maybe I should find someone else. I'll give it six weeks.
tortellini and tomato puree (400)
sultanas (50)
salmon, yoghurt and spinach on a slice of toast (400)
sultanas (50)
an options hot chocolate (40)
porridge, sultanas, yoghurt. (400)
Ok. So 1340. If it goes down a little bit every day, that's good. I can see that I need more fruit, but it seems pointless to buy it when I won't be here the day after tomorrow.
Scoprophilic accounts.
I learnt that word the other day. It means to derive pleasure from looking. We're all scoprophiliacs, unless you're blind.
I thought of the start of a song about a girl who wants to become a page three girl today:
Plain Jane on a quest for fame
She'd already be rich, but the mirror disdains
So she slathers on tan and begins the refrain
Make up, make out, make every day the same.
Stumbling out of a hackney on a friday night
Hacks write that she's a total sight
But nothing compares to the ubiquitous fright
Of the line, "you're too old love, no, not tonight".
And maybe she resembles love's young dream
Though in real life she'd make you want to scream
Looks more like a businessman in drag
A good little sell, a clapped out old slag.
If you're going into the vending of flesh
Why contemplate a philosophical mess?
You'll earn more easier lying on your back
Than posing vacuously and taking the rap.
I don't know about that... I think it could be better. It's a bit Tess Of D'Urbervilles inspired. Not that she ever ran off and became a page three girl. Tess is fairly self-flagellating, but I suppose that's what you get when your parents are alcoholics. And you're a product of a chauvinist society, which also happens to be class ridden. She had the odds stacked against her from the start. It was always to be, Hardy says. Show me the child at seven, I'll show you a man, or so the saying goes.
I had a dilemma today over whether to put Beth Ditto on my wall. I think she's fantastic, and I really like her views; however, I'm not so enamoured with her music. The only fatties on my walls at the moment are Stephen Fry and two of myself. Helen Mirren, playing Shakespeare's Cleopatra (a role I covet) is by no means fat, but her BMI is normal, I'd say. Beth Ditto would even out my wall's weight complex. But I didn't put her up, even so. She wasn't wearing amazing clothes, which is atypical; when she is, she's going up there. My own wishes are refracted back at me all day. And I won't ever measure up. My felt tips are running out, and consequently all the things I draw have to have blue hair. Today has been a boring day.
I like her and I like him. My bombazine doll is off elsewhere, obviously, as she was never really mine. She loves someone else and never loved me. That is not fine. I wish I knew for certain; I am roughly ninety percent sure. The girl she is in love with (the one I think she is in love with, for all I know it could be someone else. Not me) is dark haired and fiery eyed, self confident, witty, they click. I am jealous beyond belief. It was something she said a while ago, "I love it when people don't know they're beautiful". Well, that would be this girl. She's what you'd call handsome, or beautiful. She's tall, and maybe fatter than me. Is she? See, I know it's ridiculous comparing myself but I can almost feel I've won. I can't win anywhere else, you see. She's got that list of complementary adjectives and I have got a mannish physique and a diminished intellect.
He is mine; I love the feeling with men that you have them completely in your thrall. I did get a little tingle with him. He's not different; I know I've got the upper hand. With her it was scary, I felt like she knew everything, as if I couldn't hide from her laser gaze. I know that I can unveil myself to him sheet by sheet; I feel less embarrassed by sex because he doesn't know anything else about me, if that makes sense. I can pretend to be clever, or learned, or anything I want. Self-confident. Witholding information is where I draw my power from, which makes the reader of this blog deific. I like him. I wish I had a bit more time to develop a craving for him. Maybe it will come. Maybe not. Maybe I should find someone else. I'll give it six weeks.
Monday, 19 February 2007
Plain Jane and a quest for fame.
Today's eating:
a cookie (200)
a cup of broccoli and stilton soup and a bread roll (200)
an apple (40)
a pitta bread with cheese and tomato puree (200)
4 pieces of garlic bread (200)
brie (100)
sultanas (100)
cake we made. (400)
Ok. If this works out right, I have ate 1400 calories today. I hope. Which is bad, but at least a decrease; I also went on a walk. I went to a friend's and we baked cake and took it to see an Inconvenient truth, which emphasised what I've known for a long time, namely that we should all stop being so materialistic. We really enjoyed baking together and distributing the contents of our tin, it was lovely. Then again, I enjoy dressing a certain way, and reading; those are material, are they not?
However, I dress as I like, not as others want me to dress. I do not suffer from affluenza. I would like to learn how to sew all of my clothes.
I think... I don't know. I'm sort-of seeing someone. I definitely like him as a friend, but I usually build up to wanting someone then we have the awkward phase of being with each other before it completely destroys our friendship; I've never exactly been friends with him, but I like him. I stayed at his house one night; he isn't amazing sexually but men can be taught, surely? I don't know why they think rubbing away down there like they're trying to get a stain out is sexy. It just chafes, I know men like it firm and fast, they need to see that women don't. I quite like him, I think. Time will tell. I'm still pulling a little bit to her; I don't want this one to be a rebound because I live close to him and I don't like to shit where I eat, so to speak.
And she is so like the rose
Whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows
With dusky petals and dried out stalks
Crumbling husks where memories walk.
I think this might be the poem. I'm not sure. I wish I knew.
I contemplated putting a picture of myself in a group of people on this blog, and asking if readers could identify me in the group. I decided not to because I'm terrified someone might see it and realise who I am, in reality. I'd be interested, though, to know if my writing correlates with my appearance; on this note, I saw a preview for a Jane Austen film. I detest Jane Austen and her limited social scenery, snobbery and repetitive chick lit drivel, but she did write books that are widely acclaimed. She was a plain spinster, and who should be playing her but Anne Hathaway, a dewy young snowdrop as opposed to a crabbit piece of tumbleweed that they should have cast. Why does this always happen; the ugly or plain woman is left with nothing to aspire to. Not that I expect the film to bear any resemblance to her actual life, but it would be lovely if, for a moment, hollywood stopped churning out bland homogenised beauties and pretended they were either plain or quirky.
a cookie (200)
a cup of broccoli and stilton soup and a bread roll (200)
an apple (40)
a pitta bread with cheese and tomato puree (200)
4 pieces of garlic bread (200)
brie (100)
sultanas (100)
cake we made. (400)
Ok. If this works out right, I have ate 1400 calories today. I hope. Which is bad, but at least a decrease; I also went on a walk. I went to a friend's and we baked cake and took it to see an Inconvenient truth, which emphasised what I've known for a long time, namely that we should all stop being so materialistic. We really enjoyed baking together and distributing the contents of our tin, it was lovely. Then again, I enjoy dressing a certain way, and reading; those are material, are they not?
However, I dress as I like, not as others want me to dress. I do not suffer from affluenza. I would like to learn how to sew all of my clothes.
I think... I don't know. I'm sort-of seeing someone. I definitely like him as a friend, but I usually build up to wanting someone then we have the awkward phase of being with each other before it completely destroys our friendship; I've never exactly been friends with him, but I like him. I stayed at his house one night; he isn't amazing sexually but men can be taught, surely? I don't know why they think rubbing away down there like they're trying to get a stain out is sexy. It just chafes, I know men like it firm and fast, they need to see that women don't. I quite like him, I think. Time will tell. I'm still pulling a little bit to her; I don't want this one to be a rebound because I live close to him and I don't like to shit where I eat, so to speak.
And she is so like the rose
Whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows
With dusky petals and dried out stalks
Crumbling husks where memories walk.
I think this might be the poem. I'm not sure. I wish I knew.
I contemplated putting a picture of myself in a group of people on this blog, and asking if readers could identify me in the group. I decided not to because I'm terrified someone might see it and realise who I am, in reality. I'd be interested, though, to know if my writing correlates with my appearance; on this note, I saw a preview for a Jane Austen film. I detest Jane Austen and her limited social scenery, snobbery and repetitive chick lit drivel, but she did write books that are widely acclaimed. She was a plain spinster, and who should be playing her but Anne Hathaway, a dewy young snowdrop as opposed to a crabbit piece of tumbleweed that they should have cast. Why does this always happen; the ugly or plain woman is left with nothing to aspire to. Not that I expect the film to bear any resemblance to her actual life, but it would be lovely if, for a moment, hollywood stopped churning out bland homogenised beauties and pretended they were either plain or quirky.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Shoddy poetic rambles.
Consumptive recording:
2.5 raisin and oatmeal cookies 400
tortellini and pesto 500
two tangerines 40
four slices of pizza (margherita) 500
sultanas 100
options hot chocolate 40
bread (50)
1640. This would have been better, but there was a powercut, forcing me into eating takeaway. Well, no force was involved, but I reasoned that it was better to eat than not to eat... I suppose this is what all fatties say to justify themselves. Tomorrow I will do better. I am young, I had better do this whilst I still can.
I need to stop feeling quite so stupid about myself. Bad marks do not stupidity make. Besides which, feeling dim only makes me act so.
I loved our powercut. Rules were suspended (oh, how liminal) and we sat around and played consequences, which is one of my favourite games. We were all in one room, around a plate of tealights, and it was lovely. I'm not saying that electricity brings evils etcetera, but I can certainly see what the Amish are aiming for (well, they don't go in much for the jollity, but I definitely felt that we bonded). Then my other friends came and we went out. I hope my housemates understand that I like them every bit as much as my other friends; they are like my family that I always come back to. My other friends are very high octane; my housemates are simply very easy to be with. Actually, my friends are easy to be with as well; I don't know, it's different. Suffice it to say that I like them both in different ways.
I want to know where this is from:
And she is so like the rose,
whose beauty remains though the red bloom goes.
The rhyme isn't quite right in it, but I know that I've heard it somewhere; maybe those aren't the exact words. I want to say, "though the bloom fades", but that wouldn't fit. Maybe, "whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows"?
I wrote some shoddy poetry which I may later retract:
Shakespeare borrowing; shamelessly unconnected
Ah, my salad days
Nutrition based
A worrying waste
I sit upon a burnished throne
Or hop forty paces through
A market place.
Memories and humdrum plastic
And neon lights, of navigating
Across seas of whalebone white
Nightly, noone else in sight
A token trip for we two
Alas, Egypt, I am dying
I am left to sail, decked by pearls
Whilst elsewhere, another land
Your banner unfurls.
The moonlight ran in rivulets, disdaining your patin shoulder. You told me I was beautiful. I am paltry, pale, plain; not beautiful. My workings show in the ugly tendons of my neck, they are so easy to read. No mystery. Broad, bold, blue veined but never that. Never beautiful. Yet, you cared enough to lie and tell me that I was, because you could see that it mattered to me.
Doormats get torn with tread and grow thin
Noone notices 'till the mud loses grip
Then it's time to get a new one in
The old one laid down under odd ends and things.
2.5 raisin and oatmeal cookies 400
tortellini and pesto 500
two tangerines 40
four slices of pizza (margherita) 500
sultanas 100
options hot chocolate 40
bread (50)
1640. This would have been better, but there was a powercut, forcing me into eating takeaway. Well, no force was involved, but I reasoned that it was better to eat than not to eat... I suppose this is what all fatties say to justify themselves. Tomorrow I will do better. I am young, I had better do this whilst I still can.
I need to stop feeling quite so stupid about myself. Bad marks do not stupidity make. Besides which, feeling dim only makes me act so.
I loved our powercut. Rules were suspended (oh, how liminal) and we sat around and played consequences, which is one of my favourite games. We were all in one room, around a plate of tealights, and it was lovely. I'm not saying that electricity brings evils etcetera, but I can certainly see what the Amish are aiming for (well, they don't go in much for the jollity, but I definitely felt that we bonded). Then my other friends came and we went out. I hope my housemates understand that I like them every bit as much as my other friends; they are like my family that I always come back to. My other friends are very high octane; my housemates are simply very easy to be with. Actually, my friends are easy to be with as well; I don't know, it's different. Suffice it to say that I like them both in different ways.
I want to know where this is from:
And she is so like the rose,
whose beauty remains though the red bloom goes.
The rhyme isn't quite right in it, but I know that I've heard it somewhere; maybe those aren't the exact words. I want to say, "though the bloom fades", but that wouldn't fit. Maybe, "whose red bloom fades yet beauty grows"?
I wrote some shoddy poetry which I may later retract:
Shakespeare borrowing; shamelessly unconnected
Ah, my salad days
Nutrition based
A worrying waste
I sit upon a burnished throne
Or hop forty paces through
A market place.
Memories and humdrum plastic
And neon lights, of navigating
Across seas of whalebone white
Nightly, noone else in sight
A token trip for we two
Alas, Egypt, I am dying
I am left to sail, decked by pearls
Whilst elsewhere, another land
Your banner unfurls.
The moonlight ran in rivulets, disdaining your patin shoulder. You told me I was beautiful. I am paltry, pale, plain; not beautiful. My workings show in the ugly tendons of my neck, they are so easy to read. No mystery. Broad, bold, blue veined but never that. Never beautiful. Yet, you cared enough to lie and tell me that I was, because you could see that it mattered to me.
Loved me sicklier than death
Loved ribs and bones and concave chest
Loved a selfish, egocentric continuous whine
Till I find
I'm none so terrible
But you're too kind.
Doormats get torn with tread and grow thin
Noone notices 'till the mud loses grip
Then it's time to get a new one in
The old one laid down under odd ends and things.
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