I was going to continue the story of me and my soul mate finding each other and falling in love all over again. Then I thought I’d write about my near-miss with a deer last night and how proud of myself I am for how well I avoided hitting Bambi with my van. Or that my friend’s newly eighteen year old daughter is in the hospital with kidney failure and dangerously high blood pressure when a week ago she was healthy. The baby my other friend had just two months ago that I got to hold and snuggle yesterday making me wish for the gazillioneth time that I hadn’t had my tubes tied five years ago. Thought maybe I’d write about my mom being sick with both flu and a stomach virus and how it makes me flash back to how ill she’d been during my youth and how my family not only survived that but I think came out stronger on the other end. Or maybe I’d blog a little about my sputtering attempts to complete NaNoWriMo this year and my gloomy outlook on the possibility of success. I considered scribing a little homage to my six year old that is so naturally kind and generous that her Christmas list only included three or four things for herself and all the rest was requests for other people.
But um, no, while all of that is worthy of my attention and is in fact swirling in a messy jumble in the rattrap that is my mind, I can’t seem to stop obsessing about my weight. It’s so I can’t focus on anything else without going back to how much I hate myself right now, as in today. And how scared I am that the man I love is going to realize he can do and deserves so much better than me. There is this horrible little part of me that keeps comparing herself to his ex-girlfriend, whom couldn’t find a calorie with a candy bar in one hand a fucking hot fudge sundae in the other.
Fuck it. Fuck this. I’m tired of whining.