Your prettiness is seeping through, out of the dress I took from you.

So pretty.

Well, you are, but instead of please please don't leave me it's please please believe me. I don't think you would if I was to tell you. You might believe that I adore you, and you might believe other things too but you wouldn't believe that. I thought that if you caught me looking at you too long you wouldn't catch my meaning. You never think people are looking at you because you're beautiful and they want to absorb you before they're deprived of you. You think people are looking because you're not good enough, not because you're too good to be true. I don't think you noticed me looking. I love the lines of you, blue eyes and fair eyebrows, proud nose, pretty teeth, your little chin.

I saw you today, and it was lovely. Lack of subtlety, completely, about a lot of things you were saying and a completely lovely way of doing it because you're so subtle about other things, like job applications and self-advertising and being generally wonderful. It wasn't just the two of us- our other friend was there, and it was good to be the three of us. I was glad to have her there too because it meant I didn't feel so strange being alone with you.

You were wearing a navy fleece and I was sat next to you. Your jumper makes me think of comfort and kindness and sensibility and respect, zippered up and keeping you in and the harsh cold out.

I want you exactly as you are and no different, trousers too short and hair scraped back, head bowed and utterly beautiful.

When we read the papers together our shoulders made contact and I could feel the vibrations of your laughing and speaking through it. I would have been happy to sit all day if I could have sat there in that space, in that position, laughing at ridiculous paper assertions connected with your insides. They're usually hidden, you see. I don't think you know you're lovely and that makes me want to tell you, in detail, exactly how lovely you are. How can you not know? How can noone have told you?

You said you went to some god forsaken shag tag night, for a friend. I can't imagine anywhere you'd hate more. You don't like dancing, you never dance in public, you hate that particular brand of sexual thrusting exhibitionism that proliferates in so many plastic nightclubs. Someone was rude to you, oh darling I'd have set him straight. You set him straight by the sounds of it though, no need for anyone else's help. You're so fantastic at defending, at keeping yourself safe and keeping your principles.

Personally, I adore dancing. Not the kind you hate. I adore moving to music. I'm not in the least sexy when I do so, and I don't intend to be. I skip, hop, jump, pump my fists, stick out my elbows. My face is consumed in a maniac's grin, no pouting here please. There's no chest to speak of, and I don't wear the sort of clothes that look good on a bump and grind. You wouldn't do this kind of dancing. You wouldn't like the drug scene that goes with it. That's OK.

I'd like to dance with you, not my way and not their way. If I could, I'd like to go to one of our houses, when it was quiet. Perhaps house sitting for someone else. I'd like to watch a film and make you dinner to eat side by side. I'd put on some slow, slow music, something old. Paper Moon by Ella Fitzgerald, or the Cranberries, whilst we washed up, and I'd hold your hand and twirl you, slowly slowly so you got the rhythm of it, and then sway, holding your hand on my chest, resting my mouth on your hairline, like old times, new times for both of us. Dancing in the kitchen is always the most romantic, I think. Soporific swirling with sudsy hands with a tinny radio, like something out of the forties in technicolour.

I don't think you are straight as you say you are. I'm not so deluded that I think you like me, because I'm not clever enough, or hardworking enough, or I'm too flip. Here I'm nothing but serious but in real life I'm as flippant as can be. I think that you're in love with that girl that you're always talking to on the internet, the one you can keep at a safe distance because she's got a partner. I bet you feel something for her though, something quite other than what you profess to feel. I'd like it to be me, but if it can't be me I'm glad it's someone who returns your affections. You deserve it, so much.

Things I did today.

Guh, I just facebook friended an old school friend I met out. She's really cool and always has been- and I've always been a bit of a loser, and I felt weird doing it- like she's going to think I'm a stalker/a kiss ass/ something weird. I was with my friends, who are OK but not the coolest people and I don't know what to do about it. Oh well. It's done now, if she rejects me I never have to see her again.



Eating today comprises of:



orange juice-50

Meatballs and chips at ikea-450

2 tangerines-50



550



a chocolate bell-70

2 shortbreads-200

some marzipan-100



370



some stew-350



770 and 550 are 1420. Not too bad, considering I also walked about three miles. So therefore the key to eating less is to spend more time moving and less time eating. The moniker move more eat less is all very well, but maybe if you move more of the time you eat less of the time. The key is the percentage of time spent doing both.



Tomorrow I might go on an early morning walk. Then I will return things to appropriate shops. And volunteer at the House, if I'm not needed by my job. And see my friends in the evening. I think these are enough distractions from food.

Ohh eee oooh I'll be just like...

Linda Bassett, of East is East, Kinky Boots and Calendar Girls. I want to be able to convey stuff like she does, without speaking, drawing the eye straight to her. I wonder how people do that. I can't seem to do it. I think I need to care less about drawing the eye, and care more about feeling it. I need to banish caring about judgement, focus on character.

It can be done.

I am desperate to act, to be in a play, any play that I possibly could be in.

Hmmm.

And today I ate:

crisps-200
stew -300

raisins-150

650

cake and cream-300
3 biscuits-300
2 pieces of shortbread-190
chocolate-2 roses, some coins, a chocolate snowman-200

cucumber and pesto-50

1050

more crisps-150

Jesus, and I wonder why I'm becoming morbidly obese. I thought today's tally would be far less than this. Horrific. I haven't even done any exercise to counteract that, I'm on. And I drank last night.

Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be thinking more and eating far, far less. 4 helpings of fruit and vegetables, no wonder I'm feeling terrible.

Tomorrow there will be more fruit and vegetables, and more activity, and just more. Less food, notably. Eating crap gets you nowhere.

I miscalculated- I've actually eaten 1850, still over but under enough that if I eat like this every day I can keep it.

I am going to lose some pounds, seriously, and I think I will make a list of reasons why.

1. I don't feel embarrassed of myself when I am the best weight- this means I can act better, move better, easier, I'm more outgoing and I critique myself less. In other words, weight loss means freedom.

2. I like the way I look more.

3. I want the epithet skinny ascribed to me. Thin. I also want to be hardworking, driven, successful... serious. I would like to be described as or taken seriously. I can do this by being those things.

4. One of my friends is getting married. I want to be thin for it.

5. I want to be thinner for her, more desirable. Someone she's not ashamed to show off, should the opportunity ever arise.

Sometimes I try to dissect the way I feel about people- I certainly have a type. I always go for people larger than me in some way. I hate being large, so why do I find it so desirable? I equate largeness with comfort, with soft places to niche myself into. Not someone I'm worried about judging me, or someone I'm worried about breaking. Though I want to be worthy in other ways- I want to be worthy of people that are clever, intelligence and work ethic are paramount. Everyone I've ever adored works hard and is enthusiastic about being intelligent. If I don't find them attractive the first time I meet them, I always find them attractive once I am head over heels in. The people I like are honest and kind, usually kind in bizarre ways that aren't necessarily kindest. Explosive people, that are quick to anger about anything that riles them. Specific people, who have a set way of doing things and a set way of being. I think this is because my parents are quickly angered, and because I adore extremity- if something is worth doing it's worth doing to the utmost lengths. This is what makes it good. I want injured people, people with a practised and unsuccessful veneer. There's something awfully endearing about vulnerability. I suppose, deep down I am vulnerable and I want someone that I can be ridiculous with. Hard cover, soft inside. Or perhaps I have a saviour complex- I want to be the one to cure them, or to alleviate, to salve the wounds. I am too intense, as Judi Dench says in Notes on a Scandal. I need more than a friend.

Things to do instead of eat.

1. Draw.

2. Drink coffee, tea or water.

3. Play music that I like.

4. Make a list of what I have already eaten today.

5. Go on a walk.

6. Write.

7. Make a to do list.

Music that I like includes:

Neutral Milk Hotel
Johnny Flynn
Antony and the Johnsons
Patrick Wolf
Shapeshifters
Derek Mai
Beirut
Simply Red
Christmas carols and hymns
The Eurythmics
Bonnie Tyler
Heather Small
the song that goes, "things ain't gettin' over, listen to her say, got to turn around, got to turn around"
Celine Dion- now
Oasis
Blur
Bon Iver
My Bloody Valentine
Deathcab For Cutie
The Cranberries
Dizzee Rascal-dance wiv me
Simon Webbe- No Worries
Drum and Bass in general (needs to be more specific)
Bjork- emotional landscapes

I need more music than this to listen to, and to learn what the D and B artists I like are actually called. I also like house, but have similar problems to D and B with it.

Oh my beauty.

You're my beauty, my love, my darling, my dearest, my K...., my partner, my confidante.

You fold yourself up and squash yourself down and you're just lovely, let it out.

You get hung up on stupid things and worry too much and let trifles consume you.

You own a pair of scales I'm sure you hate.

You're not in the least seductive, sexy (what a ridiculous word), alluring, you don't try to be... which, to me, makes you all three of those things. You turn me on, and I don't mean that in the usual sense that conjurs up images of erections, groaning and mess. I mean that when I see you, it's as if there's been a button pressed inside me that fills me with air and light, that makes me feel as if I'm tipping off the ground, like I'm liberated from gravity, like I could spin off any moment. I want to smile and dance and wait for you to touch me, to trip me over the edge of my circuits and off into oblivion. Getting tea from a newsagents becomes a voyage when you're about.

I want to lay with you and make you feel safe and loved, though I wonder, with your experience of love, if you'd want it. If you'd not rather have someone that criticised you, or was less fervent, or was the same as you. Less flip than I am. You keep saying you are straight, and usually I concede the point with women I adore, knowing that they are not interested, but with you I do wonder. If you adore men so much then why...

I could be wrong.

I want to fall through the stars straight into your arms.

Anyone who ever held you, would tell you the way I'm feeling.

The only thing I ever wanted was the feeling that you ain't faking. Wait a minute, can't you see?

I adore her, and I saw her today. She's lovely. I ate 1350, which is good, and did about a four mile walk.

I adore her when she's nervous and comes off wrong, even more so when she's comfortable and kind. She touched me three times today. Twice at her house- pat on the hand as I took tea, and a hand on my shoulder as I got in her way when she looked for milk, once as I was skipping about and tripped over a hoover. Silly little trifling incidences. She's got a light, gentle touch. Pacifying. I wonder how I look to her. I just want to make her feel comfortable.

She's got blonde hair that she always wears in a ponytail with a dead central severe parting. She's got this lovely dip in her waist, out to breasts and hips. She's got shrewd pretty blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses and a hint of her cheekbones under very fair eyebrows, so fair she looks faintly surprised a lot of the time. There's a dimple in her chin, and in her cheeks if she smiles. She's shorter than I am (by about four or five inches) and curvier. She gains and loses weight a lot, amount wise rather than frequency. I love the lines of her. In and out and around. She tans easily, and her upper lip quirks up revealing white teeth. She's got a narrow nose. She has a nervous mannerism of opening her mouth and closing it, almost like a wince, which has reduced in the past few years but not disappeared entirely. She did martial arts which is reflected in the defensive state of her. Men touch her breasts without consent. She goes about in fleeces, trainers and trousers. Two men, to my knowledge, have done this; a drunk on a night out, and a man in an old people's home. She has a habit of bundling her breasts under her folded arms, away from that unwanted attention she feels they are responsible for, but I would like to tell her not to squash herself up into a little huddle. That I adore her fat or thin, I like her just as she is, however she is, because her body is only the expression of her, and it's her I adore. She has not had a relationship; perhaps because she is scared that who she sees will only see breasts, or only see something she despises about herself. Well, I adore each and every part of her. She doesn't go out drinking or dancing- she is far too self conscious for either pursuit. I want to dance quietly and slowly with her in a darkened room. I want to lie with her in her bed and make her feel as comfortable and safe and excited as I do when she's around. I want to touch her ears, her lovely face, the nape of her neck, the small of her back and her knees.