Tuesday, June 8


I got reviewed.

So when I first got the email, I was planning to be all aloof and not comment on it at all. Not even mention it. It happened; let's move on; the end. (Um, yeah right--Libby knows me better than that, I hope. Remember the Iowa incident? I actually thought about mentioning them the other day--I think someone with Iowa plates cut me off or something.)

Anyway, back to me being aloof and not mentioning it. Let's just all pretend that happened, ok?

The person who reviewed me felt that my site belonged in the "adult" category instead of creative writing (where I submitted it). Do I really talk about sex that much? (Toby says, "Good thing you were too lazy to write about the other night.")

I think this is my favorite quote: ...along with a dose of covert anger.... I think I'm going to put it on my new banner when I get around to making one. I really didn't think I was that angry of a person (and I'll probably keep telling people I'm not), but Toby snorted coffee through his nose when I said it so I guess I really am. Also, sometimes my "disjointed thoughts" are "shocking." I'll have to go find some shocking stuff 'cause I thought I was being pretty boring.

There are some fairly explicit conversations of a sexual nature, and frequent references to anorexia. (Internal dialogue: I will not comment on unneeded comma I will not comment on unneeded comma I will not I will not) I gotta go looking for the sexual stuff, too, because I really didn't think it was that bad, but maybe that's just because I live in a house full of horny men so it's just not that strange for sex to come up in conversation. Anyway, the anorexia and my "unhappiness that spans so many levels" (yes, those are mocking quotations this time) yet there is no compassion because I am "self-destructive."

What the former paragraph is leading up to is this problem of mine where it's really hard for me to sit down and be all "blah blah blah, life is good, I went to Applebee's today and it was really fun, everything is great, so there's nothing to write about" -- because if there's nothing to write about, why the hell am I even here? So, admittedly, I write when something fucked up is on my mind (literally, figuratively, whatever). I assure you (and Libby might know this, too): I'm not as unhappy as I seem in this medium. Come on; in the last twelve hours I've spent nearly six of them playing MLB 2005 on the PS2 and the other six or so were spent sleeping. My life is not as dramatic as I would like to think it is, hence all the fun Three Faces of [Whoever] (dammit, are any of you ever going to get the reference???).

And the self-destructiveness of anorexia: Go talk to a cancer patient and tell them to stop being self-destructive, because when I've spent over three months (collectively) in the hospital in the last year and a half, and I have done everything I know to do to not be sick anymore--well, I don't know, is it really self-destructive when I don't want to self-destruct? I'm not sure if I just present myself in a way that seems like I want to be dead or hurt myself, or if it's just that weird belief that anorectics/bulimics "choose" to be that way ('cause we all want attention, y'all)...I'm not sure if that made any sense. But here's the deal: this "anorexia thing" will be on my mind forever. It's not going to go away. Most of the time I can keep it "under control" so it doesn't own me, but that doesn't mean that I don't have to make a conscious choice not to freak out everytime I'm expected to eat [without throwing up]. I'm gaining weight, actually--at 115-120--and I'll probably get back up to 150 or so before I lose again (if I do, cross your fingers).

Anorexia is one of the only major life-threatening mental disorders that doesn't have some pill you can pop or some "miracle cure." Since we're all supposed to be whiney teenage rich white girls, we're just supposed to suck it up and go on with our lives, but our disease is just as bad, if not worse, than a schizophrenic's or someone with bipolar disorder.

I knew this was going to turn into a tangent. Sorry everybody.

On a totally different subject, my subconscious is all over this story idea--something about backrap (if you don't drive a stick you don't know, and if you do you might not know either). Yeah, it'll involve this huge metaphor and I really hate metaphors (just say what you mean, dammit).

I've got a baseball game waiting on me. Royals vs. Devil Rays. Toby's going down. [insert evil grin]

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