I was hungover. I went out last night, had two shots of vodka, and woke up hungover.
That's not supposed to happen. I'm fivefootfuckingeight.
I was hungover, my blood sugar was crazy low, and my muscles were on fire. I decided to make it a high-protein, normal-calorie day. And now I feel like I've gained ten pounds for it.
That's not possible.
I hate photos where I have my hand on my hip. They always make my arms look so much fatter, especially the upper arm, because it presses into your shoulder. I hate cameras with flashes because they make my chest bones nearly invisible. I shudder to think what such photos would look like were I at a normal weight.
It's weird that I was so hungover after last night, because while I did get drunk, I wasn't insanely sloshed. I was sobering up just as the rest of my friends were getting wasted at the bar. I'd made the mistake of partaking in pre-gaming festivities, and while I allowed a hot guy to buy me a beer at the bar, I only had a few sips of it. Then (practically sober by this point) I took him home with me, realized he was a terrible screw, and sent him on his way. Courteously. The tool actually wanted to have sex without a condom. Fuck that shit; we'd just met that night. I made him wrap it. I think he was pissed. I faked it. He was entirely too enamoured with my personality. Whatever happened to guys who just want you for your body?
*
MY WEEK:
I spent most of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday chain-smoking and feeling sorry for myself. On Wednesday evening I went to the first College Republicans meeting of the semester, and by the grace of God somehow got information on interning for this fall's conservative state gubernatorial candidate. The following morning I emailed the internship program director back and forth and suddenly found myself practically being handed an internship. "Oh, look, Self," I said to myself. "Some semblance of a life. Please don't fuck it up."
"Fuck that shit," said my eating disorder.
Last night was good in many respects (aside from the disappointing hot guy), because it was the first night of the fall semester that I actually dragged myself out of my pit of body image despair and hung out with my (real) acting class girlfriends. It was great to be with them, and they were all overjoyed to see me, which made me feel really good. I never do as well with groups of girls as I do with guys -- I don't "get" them as well -- but these women are just so amazing and compassionate and fun that they make it easier for me to come out of my shell. (And if you know me at all, you know that my "shell" is still extraordinarily social and raucous.) I miss them terribly.
Of course, I'm missing another party tonight. I tell myself it's because I want to give myself time to 100% recuperate from my hangover. In reality, I know it's because I'm too fat to go out. In reality of reality, it's thoughts like that that make me wonder just how long I expect to stay not dead out here.
I just wrote a paragraph on how I think about my death entirely too much for someone my age (beyond the abstract sense, which I believe everyone does), but I deleted it. It was too black and came off sounding overly emotive. Don't get me wrong; I don't want to die. I'm actually one of those few people who would legitimately choose to live forever, given the option. I just... I'm not doing a whole lot to save my life at this point.
Blah blah blah melodrama.
*
I really should call B. I keep saying this -- to myself, my friends, my family, and my therapist. Everyone agrees. "Why don't you?" they ask.
To my friends I say: "I'm waiting to bang Edward Norton clone again first."
To my family I say: "I'm busy; he's busy."
To my therapist I say: "I'm afraid of commitment and attachment terrifies me and I don't want B. to become any more entangled in this whole eating disorder mess."
The truth is a combination of all three, along with the added element that I don't share with anybody, which DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE given what I've written about previously, but which is: "I'd like to lose more weight first."
Doesn't make sense, doesn't make sense, doesn't make sense. Especially because there's the one component of me that doesn't want to pursue a more consistent relationship with him until I'm further along in my recovery, and then on the other hand here I am saying, "yeah, but five pounds in the opposite direction would really make things better."
I don't understand myself.
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