i didn't binge.
so why does it feel like it? it's the weight of about a bowlful of spinach sitting in my stomach, hopefully.

eating is fucking up. urgh. i'll find out a way to eat properly, doesn't matter.
my legs and arms are sore. and i think my neck will be too, tomorrow morning. fucking 1,000 IM. augh. i'm so tired, and i need my friend online.

why's it so late?
i would have been itching to go out last week at this time. right now, i'm just so fucking tired.

i'll post a picture of my legs sometime soon, just to prove that i am a truly fat girl trying to slim down.

-edit-
do you know how much it hurts, boy, do you know how much it hurts? i've been trying to build up my own sanity now, rooted within myself, but maybe i gave it too little water or too little sunshine, but the sanity won't grow well, and when it does, it's stunted, twisted, malformed, incomplete. i have never cried so many tears in my 15 year old life than i did the day you told me it was over. not even when loved ones died, not when i saw my parents dying in my dreams.

i gave you my fucking sanity.
i want to take it back.

sometimes i regret the day i said yes. because nothing is worth this much hurt. and then sometimes i don't, because despite that, i matured a lot, i met another friend, and i broke out of my lockdown.

after i cry, i feel so blank and smoothed out; empty; but perhaps that isn't the right adjective. i feel like the smooth surface of a blanket, snapped taut over the bed, with no wrinkles and lines and bumps.

i miss you. i hate you. i want you back. i want you to disappear.

there's this senior, gia, at school. she's got a past with diets and disorders and possibly drugs. last week she seemed the way she began at the beginning of the year: thin in the face, thin in the shoulders, random flab placed on thighs, obliques, and underarms.

today she was wearing a tank top, and it was all whisked away. all that fat. she was a taller brunette nicole richie, minus the the toned-bones look.

it doesn't hurt that she's beautiful.
(well, because she's a bitch. and i know that as someone who puts virtues over looks, morality makes the substance. which is kind of ironic.)

i want a flat stomach. and small arms. and legs.
the prettiest girl in my 7-person class (none of us are particularly ugly) came to school in shorts, and she had cellulite dimples. i was glad.

i wish i could be like these girls.
in other words, in the midst of a mind-numbing session of boredom in chemistry, i scribbled down my plans for this week and the thoughts going on in my head. i did the same in public speaking.

what came out of it, of course, was that i hated myself, i wanted to be new, and that the fucking boy that's been in my head since february has still not gone.

edit
BINGE.
getting back into the old habits, aren't we? you'll keep on ballooning and ballooning and ballooning, helene, and it won't stop.

you could really care less whether i lived or died. i'm at the bottom of your priority list and you're somewhere at the top of mine.
so, friend, where do we go from here?

i'd like to be your friend, your friend-friend. but you don't like me at all. you just think i'm interesting, that i am a creature worthy of inspection. and like all inspections, they end. the inspectors don't stick around. meanwhile, you are my friend-friend. i care a lot about you. you say that hanging around us sophmores (& i, a freshman) is like babysitting a bunch of kids. and i, no doubt, as the youngest, am a baby to you too -- you are a college freshman. and when someone asks you why you do so, you say it's to prove them wrong where they once said that you would never hang around us. so you do this just to prove people wrong? this brings me back to the question of whether or not you're here to stay. & whether or not you truly care about us.

i sincerely doubt you do. (us meaning not billy & ashley.)
& it hurts.