pygmyblue
An ego is something I've never had. (And I hope the simple act of stating it doesn't make it untrue!)
Fingers grasping a pen is just as digital as tapping at the key of a keyboard.
Respect for the digits I was born with.
Weaving our lives into the lives of others, tangling our fates. One string pulls another pulls another until the connections take a form of their own. But the thickest of blankets is rarely beautiful, and the finest of laces is easily ripped apart.
However many pounds I may have gained these past two weeks, I will lose them before May and my cruise in Bermuda!
I'm approaching my breaking point. School, sex, alcohol, consequences...all is proving more than I can bear.
But would I do it differently?
Probably not.
Lately I've been breaking too many of my own policies, just because I'm weak and won't have to deal with the consequences for a little while. I MUST get in control again.
I was in such good shape. I loved my body.
Then came spring break and a week at home where the fridge is stuffed with cheeses and puddings, the ovens continually birth cupcakes and brownies, and the cupboards are laden with peanut butter, chocolate, sugared cereals, nutella, and my ultimate weakness: strawberry pop-tarts.
Resistance, futile. Regret, unavoidable. Self-hatred, irrepressible.
To be wanted is perhaps the most basic and universal of human needs, and not at all the same as being needed.
The past tense makes me wonder. Does someone no longer want what was once wanted? Is someone once wanted no longer the object of want? Sad stories.
My boyfriend works at Planet Fitness. I don't belong, but I was sure to steal their stickers, magnets, and a lifetime supply of purple and yellow pens.
I figure it's my own fault for being there. Regret is killer. A serial killer. Probably the most successful mass murderer of all time.
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