Midnight pity party

Fuck boys and their massive appetites. Seriously. What is it with men? They're obsessed - actually obsessed - with food. And sex. And food. I'm seriously stereotyping here, but having just eaten the world's biggest take out dinner on account of hanging out with Alfie, I do have a point.

Unggggh. Words can't express how full and ill and disgusted I feel with myself. I miss the days when I wasn't disgusted with myself, and I was actually proud of what I'd eaten. It's not even like I can excuse it with saying I burnt off some calories beforehand - or afterwards - if you know what I mean. Oh no. There was none of that. Sometimes I wonder even if he even wants to sleep with me still. It's no wonder, considering I've gained around 20 lbs since we first met (oh, God) and not of those lbs has gone to my boobs, as far as I'm aware. Even now, he's texting me, trying to egg on some kind of late-night-sext-scapade, but I'm pretty sure he'd never actually suggest sex in real life. He seems to be, like, this special breed of guy who is just fairly content with oral sex alone, and never actually wants to make the move to sleep with me. What a little tease.

So. The deathlist. Veggie burger (the biggest one I've ever seen); 1/2 large portion fries; 2 slices garlic cheese pizza; and about 4 different, very high-cal condiments. And then the binge that ensued once he'd left, because apparently all that food wasn't enough for me. Jesus Christ. It's a wonder he still wants to kiss me when I eat like this. Obviously, I have very big problems.

Now I'm up at 2am downing glass upon glass of diet coke, hoping it will wash away at least some of the crap currently in my intestines, along with my sorrows.

I've honestly had enough of this. I've had enough of the 150s. I've had enough of looking at myself in the mirror and cringing. I've had enough of over-eating night after night, with no way to get rid of it (bulimia isn't an option when you live in a house with two very weight-conscious women, and only one bathroom). So all of this leaves me with only one option left: restriction. Not that I mind this. If I could go the next week on 300-500 calories a day tops, curbing my desire to binge as best I can, I might actually stand a chance of going to LA with a shred of self-confidence in tact. If I keep this up, though, I'm looking at more depressive episodes over my lack of control, possibly more weight gain, and my self-esteem left in tatters on the floor - indefinitely.

It's fine. It's cool. I have bran cereal (high fibre, and takes a long time to nibble). I also have carrot sticks and mustard (thanks, Wasted) and butternut squash soup, which is about 120 calories for half the carton. I'm not going to count coffee calories, I've decided. It's caffeine, which excuses the calories I get from the 1/2 cup of soy milk I take mine with (in any case, a little soy or skim milk daily is nothing to be feared, in my opinion). Coffee is pretty much ritual for me at this point, anyway, and I don't even care that I might be discounting up to 180 calories by dismissing it from my daily intake totals. Whatever. Anything's better than what I've been doing lately - but a week of pure, dedicated restriction will undoubtedly be the fastest way to get rid of the water weight I've clocked up over the past fortnight. Whether or not I'll keep it up abroad, is a whole other question, and one I find highly intimidating to face at the current minute.

It's time to move my life on. And it's not moving on as long as I stay like I am now. Gabrielle the Fatty. Sometimes I wish I had a new identity and a new set of friends and a new name and a new body and a new everything.

I haven't spoken to Tina in a week, and suddenly I get wind of the fact that she now has a boyfriend?! So glad I'm still in the loop (not)! I wonder about them sometimes. My 'friends', I mean, or who's left of them. Is it really, really pathetic that I'm hurt she didn't tell me? Probably. I'm most likely jealous that it isn't me with the good news. But there you go. That's life.

And something else... Last night, on the longest bloody waitressing shift of my life, I met... a guy. 19 years old, sandy brown hair, cheekbones to die for. Musician - of course. And I can't stop thinking about him. The weird thing is, I'm not sure I'll ever see him again. If I do, I do, and I guess that'll be fate's way of telling me something, right? It's one of life's most profound, but most depressing moments, when you finally click with a person, you just click... and you talk about all this stuff, you share your mind with them over the course of an evening, you give them a little piece of yourself... then you look at them again and you realise you're kind of in love with this... stranger. Except, it's like, they probably know you better than your own friends. Because you just cut to the important bits, you let them see it all in just a few words, you showed them the window to your very soul. You look at them and you see the way their face looks under the streetlamp and how pretty the smoke looks coming out of their mouth, and you think, I wish I could kiss you... I wish I could know you, but I might never, and maybe this will just be a moment. That's the stuff that really, really fucks with my head. I meet these perfect people for a millisecond and then they're gone, without a trace, and it makes my heart hurt, because I might never see them again, and then it'd be like it only ever existed in my mind. I'm so depressed thinking that might have been... it. Motivation to book a shitload of shifts for when I get back in April, on the off chance we might be working together again. Cry. Cry. Sob sob sob.

I'm totally sleep-deprived, which, in combination with being sad and weepy about stuff already, is making me petty. Time to close my eyes and wait until the morning comes.

Vive la revolution!

Sigh.