Ignore this post, I'm just being emotional/overtired/a wreck.
I want to curl up in a ball and never see the daylight again. I will make a nest in the bathroom and live off the water from the sink. No food will ever enter my mouth and travel through my body, and the weight will drop off me like rainwater. I will be delivered books and new music through the letterbox I will build in the door. I will read about things I'd never imagine glancing at, and explore every genre of music. I will paint the walls with literature, a hundred thousand words staring holes in my back. I'll learn every language spoken. Monday I'll be singing in Latvian and Tuesday I'll be scalding myself in Chinese. The only other contact I'll have will be with my pet rat, Harold. We'll live happily forever until the world crumbles beneath the cracks of the universe and everything is engulfed in darkness.
I have to stop dreaming and keep in touch with reality. The days float by, minutes tick slowly, but the hours pass too fast. The calorie counter keeps increasing, until it exceeds it's limit and explodes into a thousand shards. The feelings are not vivid, but I try to believe they are. The work is whining to be done, but I pretend it's not there. It can wait, it's not priority. Wait, yes it is. It is priority, but it's not important enough for me to care. I'm piecing my sanity back together with tape, but it's not strong enough. It will work temporarily, but it's only making it's condition worse. Ariana put her life back in the toy box and somebody else has already taken it.
Nine hundred and fifty calories today. Each, single calorie is eating away at my brain. Fat, failure, weak, disappointment, unworthy, fuck you, youfailfailfail. You can't do this, nobody wants you, go curl up in your box and don't come back. You're on time out, you need a life, you need mental help. No, I'm quite fine, thank you.
I need a plan. I need a schedule. I need something to make me think I'm alive, in this time period, not a ghost floating by this century. I want friends, I want him, but he doesn't want me no more. He threw Ariana in the trash can and didn't bother to recycle. He knows, he knows, he knows. He knows everything, he reads my mind, I'm scared. He's planted tape recorders in my brains and feeds on my thoughts. Who wants anything to do with this silly, messed up little girl? I don't blame him, in all honesty.
The doctors can erase my mind, but the obsession is embedded in my blood. It rules my soul, my life, my body. I can't control it anymore. What is this?