167 lbs, a week post-new years, post-flight (involving two days awake and a thoroughly messed up sleep cycle), post-alcohol binge, still unacceptable. I wish I could just wake up and have my 135 lb figure back, without having to try. I am so sick of trying.

My sleeping habits are fucked. Everything is fucked, really. I'm anxious about this term. I want it to turn out well. I want to be better. I want to escape my life.

Unsurprisingly, I've been looking to Edie again for inspiration and answers. And I think I've found one. I'm going to become the next Poor Little Rich Girl. I'm going to be a spoiled little brat who only eats the best-tasting food and who gets drunk to be drunk. I'm going to whittle myself down to a tiny size and move around in short tight clothing, lithe limbs dancing, skinny hips twisting. I'm going to start my day with coffee and orange juice and end it completely out of my mind. I'm involved in a film project this Easter, and in order to play the part I have to live, breathe, sleep and look like the part. Well, I don't, but I'm going to, because I want to throw myself into something headfirst. I'm sick of this useless girl. There's no way I'm allowing myself to be on camera at this weight. No way.

Food groups from now on will be limited to:

1. protein
2. salad
3. coffee
4. martinis
5. anything from a delicatessen 

Listening to Aphex Twin and moody.

As a side note, I found a reading I took of my weight on January 2nd, 2014, so a year ago. I was 152.8 lbs. For some reason I had it in my head that I was 145 lbs last January, so in reality, it turns out the twenty-five pounds I thought I'd gained over the whole year actually only works out as seventeen, minus three. Of course it's not 'only', it's never 'only' - but 6 kilos sure sounds better than twenty-five pounds. I should just buck up and get to work, 6 kilos is really not that hard.