I'm having a very meh-feeling day.

No, let's be honest-- "really goddamned shitty-feeling" would be more accurate.

It's probably all just hormonal-- I'm currently bleeding like a stuck pig, which often causes me to wig out for a few days. But I haven't felt this bad in a very long time. My old friend body image issues came back for a visit, and boy, did he have a lot to say. *sighs*

It's funny-- just a few days ago, I was annoyed because I'd lost enough weight that my pants were starting to fall off again, thereby necessitating the purchase of new pants. Now I'm staring at myself in the mirror, poking and prodding, judging and finding myself wanting, as usual.

I think part of the reason I'm feeling this way is my obligatory visit to my "office" Christmas party on Thursday for the newspaper. I was the only woman there who wasn't wearing a dress. The. Only. One. I was wearing a button-up shirt, jeans, and my new stompy boots, and everyone else was wearing a goddamned cocktail dress and enough makeup to stock a clown college. No, there was no dress code-- two of the girls felt like dressing up, so all the rest of them decided to follow their lead. Every other woman there was also about a size 2, with one exception. Guess who was forced to participate in fucking group pictures? 


I look like a fucking corpse in most pictures, especially now that I've been bedridden for most of the past three weeks, and especially if you use a flash. I looked like a bloated, white, dead thing standing next to a bunch of sorority pledges in the shots I couldn't escape.

Also, unlike everyone else at the party, I didn't want to have anything to drink, since alcohol and death bronchitis are generally not a good mix.

So. Imagine me trying to carry on a conversation with a drunk girl whose most valuable feature is being held up by a lot of tape and hope. Yeah, like that. Top it off with being pestered by our new business manager, who apparently was striking out with Miss Hey Look at My Tits, because I can't figure out any other reason why he'd try and hit on me, other than the mistaken idea that fat girls must be desperate.


I left the party as soon as I reasonably could, which wasn't soon enough. It still did plenty of damage.

And now I'm sitting here, two nights later, crying and wishing I could change the way I was built. Again.

I hate being a woman, sometimes. I hate irrational, stupid feelings like this. I hate giving a damn over whether I fit into some ideal or not. I hate my inability to suck it up and be happy with what I've been given.

...Fuck it. I'm going to go play with some yarn.