So

apparently I've lost a bit of weight. According to two analog scales, which I normally don't trust but with two of them.. I've dipped into the "criteria" of anorexia with my BMI--bull anyway, and a symptom that many twist into a goal, but I'm supposing that means I'm unhealthy? I don't doubt it. I constantly feel like a crackhead and I wouldn't be surprised if some day soon my bones caved in from osteoporosis..

But anyway, my camp/research is occupying; it keeps me sane until the weekend rolls around. Although for the life of me I can't choose healthy things to eat there--pizza, giant corn muffins, Amp, coffee, cookies...and everyone around me eating these exotic salads and Greek yogurt.



Matt's getting his driver's license this friday. Maybe it will be as revolutionary as imagined, exciting and liberating. Or maybe it'll just prove to me that it's not the freedom, it's the relationship. I don't know.

I'm anxious, though, restless. Waiting to do something big. (Like college? my sanity would ask.) But that's what happens, isn't it? We get into a routine, however foreign it was to us a mere few days ago, and it becomes daily life. And then we search, yearn for something beyond, to satiate our adrenaline.

I want to drape myself in silks and feathers, paint red on my lips and darken the souls of my eyes. I want to wear antique high-healed red doll shoes, and banish every blemish on my face. Pretend to be beautiful and fae-like, convince myself of this. And then look in the mirror, as if I had someplace to go.