Bulletin

So I was going to continue writing out a categorical update of my affairs (not sexual... for once) since classes got out, but then my life was interrupted by some breaking news. (The good kind. See, this is what I wish O. would have done when we killed Bin Laden. "Stay tuned for an important message regarding national security"? What the fuck, man. That's terrifying. At least tell us what kind of message it is. Like, "I have a surprise for you! Wait here!" or "I have some important news -- but don't worry, it's really really good news. Stay tuned.") ANYWAY I'LL STOP STALLING.

I just got an email that notified me of my late acceptance into BADA. Remember that old ghost? The British-American Dramatic Academy's Midsummer in Oxford programme? Well, it's 29 July-August 20, and I just got off the phone with my dad re: finances, and I CAN GO!

See, I auditioned back in March, running on fumes, knowing I hadn't showcased my best work, but thinking that it went pretty well considering that according to the professionals, I was nearing hospitalization territory. I got wait listed, but was literally the "next" person right under the chosen few. As in, if they accepted their top 25 people (I don't know if that's even remotely accurate but for the sake of explanation let's assume it is), I was number 26.

Not bad for a dying girl.

So apparently a spot just opened up. And obvi, I'm planning to go. But... um...

FUCK.

MY.

EATING.

DISORDER.

DAMN.

IT.

Okay. I have to do this right. Or at least half-ass it. Whatever I weigh when I leave for BADA, I'll try my damnedest to try to maintain it while I'm there. I can't be fucking having heart murmurs while Alan Rickman's teaching me Shakespeare. No fainting. The last time I went to England, improper-use-of-the-word-ironically enough, I let my eating disorder run wildly out of control and came back with my nutritionist threatening to put me in the hospital unless I gained weight RIGHTFUCKINGNOW. I was also miserable. I don't remember much aside from being terrified of all the weird food and eating out, scrutinizing every menu trying desperately to find the lowest-calorie option (shrimp and lettuce, shrimp and lettuce, where the hell is the shrimp and lettuce), crying because they had no skim milk anywhere and my dad forced me to drink the 2 percent, being freezing cold, and curling up on cathedral pews, shivering. Seriously. When people ask me, "how was England?" all I can say is, "really cold."

I would not, needless to say, like a repeat of this. UGH, why can't I just get better? No. No no no. No summer weight gain. But maybe I can just... try... to maintain wherever I am when I leave. That would be nice, if I could do that.

As long as I lose more weight first.