Oh, bloody hell...

I'd like to hide, sometimes. Hide from the television, from the People magazines and the Teen magazines and the YM magazines and oh, those fucking Maxim might-as-well-be-porn magazines. Where the girls have no body fat except for their C-cup chests, managing to get along just fine on a bmi less than fifteen...

It's not healthy, Lisa. When you were that bmi, you weren't eating. Your hair was falling out. Your hipbones were bruised, you didn't sleep, you were passing out, you were slicing your arms. You were not healthy. You were not happy.

But these girls are fine. Not to mention lusted and after and admired by thousands upon thousands of men and women alike. Thin is in, isn't it?

Fuck you, world.

I still haven't reached my target weight.

Which is a goodbad thing.

I am not my illness. I am not my illness. I am not my illness.