amor

Holy moly, I ate a lot last night. No, really. I shan't go into details, but let's just say that caffeine usually equals anxiety for me and that anxiety is temporarily soothed by the act of chewing and gum just won't cut it when there are so many other delicious things on which to chew in this massive world of ours. This world is not ours! It belongs to everyone and everything, something that the Western culture has yet to figure out. So anyway, instead of freaking the holy moly fuck out about how much food I consumed during the wee hours of the night, I took that anxiety (which was now the anxiety over food, not the caffeine-induced anxiety) and transformed it into really hilarious tweets and reading books about boy wizards and reevaluating my life and values. Hey! That's better than many of my previous reactions to binges! It's a damn good step in the damn right damn direction. Pat. On. The. Back.

It has gotten to the point (FINALLY) where I am simply tired of hating myself. It is exhausting. It is boring. It is dangerous. (Isn't danger supposed to be exciting? I guess not.) I want to have a love affair with myself. I'd also like to, at some point, have a love affair with a disgustingly dreamy Latin pool boy who speaks no Español just to say that I've done that/him.

Fierce kindness and compassion towards myself will only lead to good things. I promise. It may also lead to a larger butt and rounder hips, which are also good things. I promise. The Latin pool boy promises. Oye mamacita, que buena estás.