more wrong

I’m fat. I’m huge. This morning I have on my gigantic jeans. Size 34! I have the button held together with a pony-tail holder because I can’t even zip them to the top, much less fasten the button. You guessed it. I hate myself. I’ve eaten myself into a frenzy. My face is swollen and my eyes need their own baggage rack. Heck, my body has it’s own zip code. I’ve never been so completely disgusted with myself. Oh. Stop. Wait. There are those other seven hundred sixty-three times, I’ve been extremely disgusted, too.

156 today.


How did I get this way? How did I ever think that food — junk food — could/should/would fix things. Could fix hurt.

I’ve never been more wrong.

Why can’t something else be broken? Why does it have to be this?

Why do I keep punishing myself with garbage?

OK. Boohoo time is over. Sorry about that. Picking myself up and getting on with it.

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