FicWad

I opened my eyes, ready to feel the warmth of the morning. It was probably the only warmth that was going to be available to me all day, so I embraced it. With my fan still on high, I covered my bare arms with my hands and quickly shut it off, stepping out of my bed. Morning. The best time of day to weigh yourself. The best time to see that all of your work, and all of you self-destruction is really paying off.


Wow. How morbid is this making me?


Today, was work. Hair appointments, chatty women. The bald, gay man, running back and forth between his tattoo parlor next door and his regulars at twelve and three. I love my job, don't get me wrong, but even the most beloved things become mundane. Trust me.


Especially when it comes to stepping on the scale and feeling no surprise to see it read a pound and a half less. Pleasing, sure, but not surprising.


I put my clothes in the laundry basket, and stepped in the shower, but not before examining every inch of my body in the full-length mirror next to the hamper. No, a shower is not allowed until I've self-examined until my head feels like it's going to explode.


But you know what? This is my time. These are the private moments in my life that I own, and absolutely no one can know about...

And since I live completely alone, along with having no significant other, this is actually very possible. And, also, since this is a private journal that I'm keeping to see myself through the healing process (yeah, right), it's moments like this that private is the only word allowed to be used in describing them. (Welcome, welcome, unprepared readers.)


After scrutinizing every feature, down to the pores lining my nose and chin, I step into the shower, and it feels damn good. More warmth. Morning warmth...the warmth I was previously referencing. This is what makes waking up worth it. It's beautiful the way cleanliness can make the fat feel skinny, or the hungry feel full. A hot shower seriously heals the soul, I promise.


Shampoo. Condition. Wash. Exfoliate. Blah. Blah. Blah. I like the warmth of the shower, but not necessarily all of the actions that typically take place once your warm. I'd rather just stand there....making me the laziest person I know. Congratulations, me. I should probably have someone make me a t-shirt or something.


Make-up. Minimally, of course. I guess once upon a time I used to count on make-up to cover up the fact that I was crying myself to sleep every night, or that I just wanted to keep their attention, or that I thought I could be strong but was actually just killing myself, but now, I have a body to back up those insecurities, so make up. Minimally. I check the mirror the way I shouldn't as I blow dry my brown hair. Only the back is brown, though, seeing as I let the little gay, bald man who's constantly running back and forth between his tattoo parlor next door and his regulars at twelve and three, highlight just my bangs white blonde.


I'm not going to lie. I love what he did. New body, new hair.


My, God. I'm the most self-obsessed person alive. I really don't want to be. I kind of want to worry about hair appointments, and school, and work and...all of the things I used to worry about. But I can't. I worry about not getting to binge. I worry about getting to binge and not getting to purge. I worry about killing myself, essentially.


That's not normal, I've gathered...


Today, I am highlighting the hair of the girl that lives on the floor below me. She's really easy to deal with, so my stress level should remain pretty healthy. She sort of sits down in the chair that is attached to my station, and says:


"Let my hair be your artistic freedom."


I love her. So, again, it's easy. I add some color here and there, never the same, but really, never that different. She's a breeze. I charge her depending on the color, and she's out the door. Two hours, give or take.


I must say, though, that the grouchy Austrian lady who comes in at twelve makes me want to stab sewing needles into my eyes. Repeatedly. Not really, but when she sits down and points at a picture in a magazine, I truly assume that's what she wants...


Wouldn't you?


Yeah, well don't. She's a yuppie bitch, and when she points at the magazine picture and incoherently mumbles in German, she's probably just doing it to trick you, and then have a good laugh when she goes home.



I swear she's out to get me. Suh-wear.


So, along with facing those things today, one being lovely and the other being horrendous and scary, I have to face my appetite. I have to face my biggest enemy: Food.


I also have to face a new appointment. Some boy who was referred to me by his sister or cousin or mother or something. Who the hell knows, but I'm almost positive he's not straight if he's taking hair advice from his sister (or cousin or mother or something). I'm also almost positive that's a nasty generalization I just made, and a good hammering of the toes would be appropriate. I'm not saying I'd actually let anyone do that, but had I been given feet of steel, I suppose I'd say, "Go right ahead."


I'm failing to make sense here, so I think I'll end this lovely visit with you all by saying:


Please love yourselves more than you think you should.


Please.


P.S. I'm going to end every entry with a word of advice for you all. The last thing I would ever want is for anyone to feel the way I feel.


Cause as far as feeling goes, I don't do much of it anymore.






A/N: all my mind can comprehend is writing right now, so i guess it's not a bad deal for people who read my stuff that this is how i'm relieving my stress.