2 cubes of chocolate-140
tomatoes, mushrooms, cheese and bread-300
half a brownie-200
an apple-40
a chicken burger-550
Friday, 9 November 2007
Things we do and things we don't.
We stay at each other's houses till three in the morning, not talking about anything in particular.
Last night you asked me why my foot was touching yours, and I said it was because I was cold... which I was, but I don't know if you knew.
I've started referring to things said when we're together as "we".
You taught me how to waltz (I didn't know that I already knew how, I just didn't know it was called a waltz).
You nearly knocked me off a ladder, and I nearly knocked you.
We insult each other constantly.
We went for a drink and talked to other people; you didn't speak at me for nearly five minutes, preferring to look at someone else that had travelled to similar places that you had. It was irrational, but I got worried. I talked to people too.
We went to yours and talked to your housemate. I kept staring at your hands.
You made me touch the scar on your leg, but I don't think you like it when our feet touch. I re-plastered your thumb and drew another black ring round your wedding finger, and though I don't believe in anything like that, or even that we'd be together that long, I did like holding your hand in mine whilst I did it.
I feel like I'm constantly being tested by you... and maybe always falling short as well. I know where we stand as friends, but I'm sure that I don't just want to be friends. But I would rather we were friends than entirely awkward. And I don't want you to use Jane Austen lines against me like you did on that other girl.
Last night you asked me why my foot was touching yours, and I said it was because I was cold... which I was, but I don't know if you knew.
I've started referring to things said when we're together as "we".
You taught me how to waltz (I didn't know that I already knew how, I just didn't know it was called a waltz).
You nearly knocked me off a ladder, and I nearly knocked you.
We insult each other constantly.
We went for a drink and talked to other people; you didn't speak at me for nearly five minutes, preferring to look at someone else that had travelled to similar places that you had. It was irrational, but I got worried. I talked to people too.
We went to yours and talked to your housemate. I kept staring at your hands.
You made me touch the scar on your leg, but I don't think you like it when our feet touch. I re-plastered your thumb and drew another black ring round your wedding finger, and though I don't believe in anything like that, or even that we'd be together that long, I did like holding your hand in mine whilst I did it.
I feel like I'm constantly being tested by you... and maybe always falling short as well. I know where we stand as friends, but I'm sure that I don't just want to be friends. But I would rather we were friends than entirely awkward. And I don't want you to use Jane Austen lines against me like you did on that other girl.
Heathcliff and Kathy on the Moors.
Here is something wonderful: we go off together and I wear his coat. I give him my scarf and we sing silly Kate Bush songs and jump about outside in the dark, I am Heathcliff because his coat is so eighties, and he can be Kathy for the time being.
I'm glad
I'm not a fat girl. And someone said to me recently that they couldn't imagine me being a porky kid, which was lovely. He said I had broad shoulders, but I don't think he means it as an insult. Does he like girls with broad shoulders? Does he like girls?
Superstitions.
I'm creating lots around my play so that it'll be good. It was a good first night, and the second night will be alright, but I want it all to be amazing. I don't think I kept under the count yesterday.
What I ate yesterday
A cheese and carrot sandwich-400
an apple-40
a bacon and onion sandwich-300
a bag of salt and vineager crisps
a piece of cake
In short, utter crap. Today so far I've had two cubes of chocolate and cheese on toast with tomatoes and mushrooms. Which is better.
an apple-40
a bacon and onion sandwich-300
a bag of salt and vineager crisps
a piece of cake
In short, utter crap. Today so far I've had two cubes of chocolate and cheese on toast with tomatoes and mushrooms. Which is better.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Under the count.
I need to eat more fruit, I'm getting loads of spots.
I asked him if he wanted dinner tonight; not as a date, just as in an I'd-cook sort of thing. I spoke to one of my friends about him, and she said that once he'd said to her that he'd only ever had a real thing for one girl, and that he thought he might be gay or asexual. This doesn't bode well for me. Unless I count the fact that I look a little mannish. I think I'm too spotty for him to like me properly, and he's really clean. I'm probably not clean enough. Or too clingy. He said he'd have dinner tomorrow night, but replaying it, I can't tell if he meant it or if he was just desperate not to talk to me anymore.
I think sometimes that he's a self-promoting geek, and at others I just want to hold his hand. I worry about whether my friends consider him strange, because he is, but then again I am nowhere near normal myself. I'm usually happy in the real world, I just let it all out here.
I am worried about the play, and my schoolwork, and various things. Whether my familial relationships are disintegrating, whether I'll have a fulfilling life etcetera etcetera.
I am in a play with a girl who is really petite. I say this every time I'm in a play, I think that what I mean is that they're petite compared to me. This girl is about five feet three tall, and she's slim. I am obviously a good half a foot taller; this makes for a comedic stage partnership, because we look so very different. She looks young, I look old. She is tan and blonde, I am pale and wan with dark hair, like a vampire. I am tired of this distinction being made; it was made in last year's play. I was told I looked like the girl that was my daughter (who was also small and slim). Anyway, I'm sick of being the mother because I'm taller and wider. I'm never the love interest, or the pretty girl. I get callbacks for those parts but I never actually get them. I can't do anything about being tall, or about my face or the general breadth of my shoulders, which are indeed very broad. I think my collarbones can look stupid; I just look like a man, and I'm tired of it. When people say that we look so different, I think what they're really saying is, "you're huge! Far larger than her!" I don't want to accept it as me, because I want to be the pretty girl. I've felt like this since I was about three and I thought I'd have grown out of it by now.
I was never a bridesmaid. I always thought, in some way, that that was because I wasn't pretty enough.
I wonder if that one girl was slim and pretty? She probably was. They always are; the fatties are never the love interests.
I asked him if he wanted dinner tonight; not as a date, just as in an I'd-cook sort of thing. I spoke to one of my friends about him, and she said that once he'd said to her that he'd only ever had a real thing for one girl, and that he thought he might be gay or asexual. This doesn't bode well for me. Unless I count the fact that I look a little mannish. I think I'm too spotty for him to like me properly, and he's really clean. I'm probably not clean enough. Or too clingy. He said he'd have dinner tomorrow night, but replaying it, I can't tell if he meant it or if he was just desperate not to talk to me anymore.
I think sometimes that he's a self-promoting geek, and at others I just want to hold his hand. I worry about whether my friends consider him strange, because he is, but then again I am nowhere near normal myself. I'm usually happy in the real world, I just let it all out here.
I am worried about the play, and my schoolwork, and various things. Whether my familial relationships are disintegrating, whether I'll have a fulfilling life etcetera etcetera.
I am in a play with a girl who is really petite. I say this every time I'm in a play, I think that what I mean is that they're petite compared to me. This girl is about five feet three tall, and she's slim. I am obviously a good half a foot taller; this makes for a comedic stage partnership, because we look so very different. She looks young, I look old. She is tan and blonde, I am pale and wan with dark hair, like a vampire. I am tired of this distinction being made; it was made in last year's play. I was told I looked like the girl that was my daughter (who was also small and slim). Anyway, I'm sick of being the mother because I'm taller and wider. I'm never the love interest, or the pretty girl. I get callbacks for those parts but I never actually get them. I can't do anything about being tall, or about my face or the general breadth of my shoulders, which are indeed very broad. I think my collarbones can look stupid; I just look like a man, and I'm tired of it. When people say that we look so different, I think what they're really saying is, "you're huge! Far larger than her!" I don't want to accept it as me, because I want to be the pretty girl. I've felt like this since I was about three and I thought I'd have grown out of it by now.
I was never a bridesmaid. I always thought, in some way, that that was because I wasn't pretty enough.
I wonder if that one girl was slim and pretty? She probably was. They always are; the fatties are never the love interests.
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