sustained from an old injury. They only flare up every once and again. Enough to make me fall head over heels on occasion.
My hair grows like a weed. I cut off six inches two or three weeks ago and now, I can barely tell a difference.
I grow my fingernails long and smooth and rounded. I used to file them into sharp little points once upon a time, but I’ve grown out of that phase.
I keep my feet in pedicures… they’re one of the few luxuries I really, really indulge in.
I have a soft heart and it makes me cry easily for animals, small children, the suffering of others, and the beautiful agony that is my own suffering.
I have a strong will that lets me struggle and strive.
I have an unhealthy relationship with food and consequently, my body, that my personal trainer is trying to break me of; instead of seeing food as sustenance, which is all it is, I see it as both the enemy and comfort, depending on my mood.
My favorite parts of my body are all the little bony places: my wrists and ankles, my collarbones and hipbones, the tiny points where my ribs poke out beneath my breasts.
I want, more than anything, to travel, penniless, through the world, making my way the only way I know how.
But that thought frightens me too, because I know the terrible, squeezing grip of poverty well, the way it makes you unable to breathe, the anxiety it gives you, the scars it leaves… and I never want to know it so intimately, ever again.
They say people who drink whiskey straight are real alcoholics. I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur.
My compartmentalizing skills are legendary: they are how I survive but also have the propensity to ruin me utterly.
The bottom part of the year is my favorite. Autumn is passing into Winter, and the cold air soothes my spirit. I’ve been listening to Christmas music like I need it to live, and I’ve had a roaring fireplace every night for a week… warranted, by the way.
I want something dangerous and exciting and new to happen to me very soon.