AnorexicStabber's Xanga

Friday, November 06, 2009

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 16:52:14 GMT

I am pale, weak, and sickly.
My hands are death.
I can scarcely walk unassisted.
If this were early 19th century England, I would be the sex.
Given they could look past my alpha-male bull-walrus cough.

It might be H1N1, or some less-stylish strain of influenza.
But here is a more plausible explanation:
This is a manifestation of my inconsistent, unhealthy lifestyle.

I haven't done any school work this entire week.
I somehow piddled away days.
"Somehow" entails:
-30 Rock episodes online.
-Farmville.
-Running.
-Sleeping.
-Knitting.
-Noteating.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 18:12:25 GMT

Eighteen yearsa thisshit.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:59:34 GMT

Six yearsa thisshit

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 21:32:47 GMT

I feel like I have nothing to do all day.
Nothing I have to do.
I go to the essential classes, which are limited to Programming lecture and Accounting lecture.
All other classes are secondary; they should feel honored if I include them in my schedule.
So don't get your hopes up, all my discussions and math lecture. If I should give you the time of day, it is merely a fluke, a whim, an accident. Don't misinterpret my intentions; don't flatter yourself.

And this week I don't have math homework, due to the midterm.
Which stood in for homework as my weekly dose of ass-fucking.

Not that it's awful.
In fact, math homework is what I live for, between weekends.
Aside from being a huge, much-needed ravenous time-devourer, it is quite enjoyable.
One would hope so, seeing as it is my major and all.

So without discussion or math lecture, and without math homework, where am I to turn for pastimes?
Here is where:
-Ridiculous unnecessary grocery trips
-Inefficient routes about campus
-Stressing myself sick about calorie consumption
-Working out excessively
-Knitting
-Farmville
-Journaling

This week is lasting forever.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 03:01:21 GMT

My photo'd-and-captioned weekend.

A tangible manifestation of Farmville!

This guy fell from the line.

Halfway through straightening.

Hip or something.

My neighborhood = classy.

@Stonewood

@Stonewood

Congratulate us a lot on our engagement.
Also note:
Smarties wrapper, the remnants of our postcoital snack of choice.

I started from scratch on my Accounting project yesterday.
I worked straight through from early afternoon to 10:30 pm.

And then I vomited in the bathroom.
Solid food deprivation paired with nine hours of intense concentration is not optimal for maintaining bodily functions.
Such as stifling vomit.

It wasn't even satisfying.
All that came up was black tea and warm yellow stomach vinegar.
That's all there was to come up.

And then I collapsed on my bed.
My eyes unfocused and refused to return to the world of distinct figures and detailed surfaces.

My roommate left and turned the light off, though I wasn't sleeping.
And I said. I mean I guess.

And fell asleep until 9 this morning.

I've crashed and burned so early this quarter.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 05:00:07 GMT

All of Downey had Columbus Day off.
I pretended I did too.

I had to lie to both of my parents.
Which felt like high school. It felt playful.
And harmless enough, in any case.
Two lectures is not a devastating loss.
This is, though:
Leaving my Accounting project on the computer table at my dad's apartment.
Assigned two weeks ago, due this Thursday.

Throwing tennis balls in the hallway and overusing the term "smokin-hot" are annoying and unnecessary;
they sum up my floor.

Friday, October 09, 2009

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 05:57:53 GMT

Stabbing's where it's at.

Some journal excerpts:

Wednesday
8pm
I was completely overthinking the Programming in Computers homework.
And so I had a meltdown.
My mind whimpered as I googled and googled and googled how to change from a string to an integer in C++.
Then I curled into a fetal position and eventually shot myself in the face, mentally.

And then Kree to the rescue!
"See, you're overthinking this," he said in his hesitant, self-conscious, apologetic manner.
Which I didn't process right away, as I was lost in the deep grey-green of his eyes, washed-out but friendly, 2 feet from my face, staring alternately at me and the screen. Perched above pockmarked and acne-scarred sunken-in cheeks.
As his short thin arms gesticulated, his little beer belly tucked into his lap as per squat.

The fuck does "as per" mean, and where did I get it.

I think it means "according to."
I think I meant "due to."
Due to squat?
Okay.

9pm
Today is my punishment day.
I've had a black tea with soy milk and a banana.
I worked out. Not too hard because I didn't want to faint.

Thursday
12pm
I got the Pumpkin Smash from Jamba Juice, despite myself.
Elaborating on "despite myself":
+ Calorically (squandering away half my daily intake).
+ Temperature-wise (as Fall weather has been giving us a taste of its sugar).
+ In terms of my former employment, and the residual bitterness that has inevitably ensued.

It is soymilk, pumpkin base, and frozen yogurt (or sorbet instead, if you are me).

I feel cold now. I feel awful.
But it was, I admit, fucking delightful.

1pm
I want udon noodle soup.
A breeze hit me without warning, from an unidentified source – I am sitting inside – and my nipples froze like a possum in the middle of the road at night.
I'm not going to check, but they are probably the size of dimes, the shape of thimbles, and the color of a little Mexican boy.

Don't wear sandals if you have little piggie-toes.
But more importantly, don't pee next to someone who has an iPhone and an hour-long break between classes.

Thursday, October 01, 2009

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 03:42:09 GMT

I left my straightener at home last time I visited.

So all this week I've had to rock the for-reals hair.
Which looks like this.

aka terrible.
It's all curled and voluptuous, like chicharrones.

I look like a mother-of-four from the early nineties.
A pair of high-waisted tapered Levi's and I'm good to go.

I've been doing everything in my power to maintain the steady pace at which I damage my growing hair.
Not having a straightener is quite a set-back, to say the least.
I've had to resort to having it up at all times, as tight as possible.

Today I ordered a salad from one of the residential restaurants.

I usually try to avoid the restaurants at all costs.
I don't trust their judgement when it comes to the term "vegan."

Not that the dining halls have earned much of my respect in that realm, either.
Sometimes there's a "vegan" sign next to rice with large obvious strands of scrambled egg laced throughout.
Sometimes the veggie burger is listed as "vegan," other times "vegetarian."
The dining hall website sometimes indicates that a "vegan" option has 350 mg of cholesterol, which is impossible.
Also, the website-symbol for vegetarian is the dining-hall symbol for vegan, and vice-versa.

If it's so cumbersome for them to educate themselves and check the ingredients thoroughly, they shouldn't bother to offer prepared potentially-vegan probably-not-though options.

The dining halls can be a battle zone, if you choose to bother with their insidious little menu labels.
Thus, I stick to the unlimited salad bar.

Which I figure is vegan.
Unless they rub their lettuce and spinach and julienne vegetables all over raw chicken before setting them out.
And spike the balsamic vinegar with sheep blood.

But that strikes me as an inefficient allocation of time and resources.
I don't know who would authorize that kind of thing.

Today I decided to go to Rendezvous, a residential restaurant.
I ordered, very distinctly, "Vegan somen salad."

I got back to my room.
The first component I tried was what I thought to be a radish.
They were abundant in the salad, half-coins and strips, milky white with red skin.
But where I expected crunch, there was only a soft resistance.
Like stringcheese, or bicep muscle tissue, or a semi-flaccid penis.
It had no distinct flavor.

I spit it out and examined it.
My first thought made my stomach drop and crumple like paper.

I remembered going to an Asian restaurant at an airport in Nebraska, about ten years ago.
I was drawing pictures in a journal with washable markers.
For an appetizer, instead of bread, they brought us what appeared to be a sliced hard-boiled egg, except the yolk was bright pink.
My WASP family and I were alarmed, frightened, and disgruntled by it.
"Is it...an egg?" my older brother asked.
Slowly, I reached across and placed a timid finger on it.
"It feels like egg," I told them, uneasily, doubting myself.
When I withdrew my hand, a little orange fingerprint of washable Crayola ink remained on the egg-thing.
And, since it was now contaminated, nobody felt pressure to try it.
After setting it at the edge of the table, we looked expectantly at the waiter to kindly take it the fuck out of our sight.
And everything returned to a forced-normal, in attempts of pushing the plate of inky egg-stuff out of our consciousness.

Those fucking Asians,
I thought,
and their fucking pink eggs in my vegan somen salad.

I fished them out and set them aside.

Not without a couple of healthy dry-heaves.

I looked it up on the Rendezvous website.

There were two somen salad options on the menu:
-Vegan somen salad
-Somen salad with fishcake

After I had been so distinct.
"Vegan somen salad," I enunciated to the chick at the register.
I saw her press the "Somen salad" button.
And was content as a result.

This one I didn't allow myself to process.
For my own sanity.

That I had chewed and almost-eaten fish, the flesh of a once-living being.

That's something that I can't handle anymore.
Physically, mentally, or psychologically.

I don't know how anyone can.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 00:20:53 GMT

This is the first quarter where none of my classes appeal to me in particular.

Maybe that's for the better.
Maybe this time I won't have high expectations.
Maybe I won't become eventually disillusioned.
As inevitably happens.
Or as has happened without fail thus far.

I made my boyfriend stop eating animals.
But in return I have to give up my bad habits.

I got the shit-end of the deal, I assure you.

Racoons at Dashew!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 05:03:52 GMT

Yeah, but here's the thing.

I don't get internet in my room.
So only by trekking to the lounge can I access my precious Farm.

The music is really the only reason I still play.
Electric guitar with a quaint acoustic western feel.
But I refuse to walk to the lounge and put in earbuds while I harvest crops.
And listening to it aloud would be rude.

Not to mention absolutely ridiculous, and embarrassing.
A potential setback in the beginning-of-the-year making-friends process.
Or if not a setback, definitely not the right message.
Not for the clientele I hope to herd.

Though at this point I will really take any clientele.
Given they feed themselves to me in small and unimposing but gradually larger doses.

Therefore FarmVille is getting old.

What I thought was an earthquake turned out just to be dorm life.
I suppose I had forgotten.