Don’t forget to phrase your answer as a question!

This past weekend marks the second time I’ve moved in less than six months. I thought I had built up some muscle during the last move, but I think my muscle cells are so starved that they’ve resorted to some kind of cannibalism in there and left me with pretty much next to nothing. So while my 17 year old niece was helping the men move the heavy furniture, I was lifting pillows and blankets and hoping no one would notice.  Now maybe this doesn’t sound so bad to you, but please note that here I am two days after all my hardcore lifting and I’m still so sore I’m practically bedridden.

“You make death sound like such an ugly thing.”

– Me, in response to my friend Crazy D, who was trying to lift me out of a morbid slump by highlighting the dark side of death, namely that dead bodies bloat (the horror!) and stink.

Should I or shouldn’t I grow out my hair? For the longest time, I’ve kept it cropped pretty short but recently I’ve decided to let it grow a bit. Right now I’m in that ball-sucking awkward phase where I somehow manage to get the short, short hairs bobbypinned into the most anorexic of ponytails, a look my husband calls very ninja and which has me wanting to just say fuck it all to hell.  But beyond that there’s the question of added weight. Yes, this is something I’ve thought about considering my hair is exceptionally thick and has the potential to add several ounces, if not full blown pounds to my lately ballooning frame. What should I do? Should I kill myself now for even caring about such trivialities, shave my head bald or continue down the path I’m already on? And if I do continue to allow my hair to grow, how much can I reasonably subtract from the scale for its increasing fatness?

Dead End. Pretty much sums up where my eating disorder takes me day after day, month after month, year after year…

A warning to our God-loving (or God-fearing, whichever) evangelical fans, the following post is extremely blasphemous. Read it and you might be cast immediately into Satan’s fiery pits. To everyone else, what follows is a text exchange between me and a friend on Mother’s Day.

Me: I hope I die. I’m obese.
Friend: I’m right there with you. I just finished eating the most evil dish ever AND I didn’t even exercise today, so death would be God’s own mercy upon me.
Me: Let’s pray.

….an hour or so later…

Friend: Just an update: I’m still alive, which proves that God is exactly as much of a cocksucking shitbag as I’ve always expected.
Me: He truly is.

The bare minimum: Zoloft (the generic), 100 mg. Of all the drug cocktails I’ve been on over the past 16 years, I prefer the single simplicity of a 100mg dose of sertraline. It’s just enough to keep me from sticking my head in a gas oven, but not so much as to make me feel comfortable in my skin or forget that life sucks major balls.