Sunday, March 27, 2011

Fatass. Fatass. Fatass.

I want my self control back. I want my crazy calorie counting back: I want my professional nutrition mind back.

I want my binge terror nights, and my hunger highness back. I want my pornography pictures of models staring right back at me subliminally telling me I'm almost there.

I want my hours of daydreams, of the new me. The person I've created to live out how I'd become when I get to my goals, pushing me and motivating me to be like my alter ego.

I want my resistance back. My pages of lies, secrets, and sneaks back.

I want my days of walking down the hall, 3lbs lighter but feeling 10 levels higher. I want my morning filled with hipbone squeezing, thighs comparing, belly ribbing and collarbone touching, knowing I lost fat. I want this endless 'you're so tiny!' and 'how did you get so tiny?' remarks back.

I want binge till blood nights, deducting calories from my list back. I want shameful cheats followed by vigorous exercising back. I want cries and shame, exile and blame, on "how I could have let myself go and to catch myself before it's to late" nights back.

I want my worldwide social networking friends back, they ones who understood when I said "purge" and "negative calorie". I want the support they gave, cause I still have support to give.

This is who I was, and though some say it's for the best, I'm at the point where I've let things flow however they go.

Well, I'm done. I need order and control. I need my anorexia and bulimia back.

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