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Snow cold and Skinny

I’m sitting on the train at the moment because I’ve been at home for the weekend – expect it was a weekend that extended to Thursday! I don’t where you are reading this, but my hometown is London, England. On Sunday night and all through Monday we were hit by the heaviest snow in 18 years. This resulted in the whole of our glorious capital city being effectively shut down! No big red buses roaming the streets, no trains and hardly even any taxis! Shameful? Just a bit. So anyway, no one could get to work, and I doubt most people even stepped outside their front door. Four days later and the snow is still sitting thick on the ground and hasn’t melted an inch! It’s absolutely foreign.

You should have seen me this morning dragging my lead-weight suitcase through the thick-set ice and snow on the paths. It was horrific! There was absolutely no point on having wheels on the bloody thing because it just wouldn’t move! So of course I was late, missed my trains, had to buy another really expensive ticket and my back is killing! I did my back in already from shovelling all the snow from our garden path and now with the suitcase this morning, it has completely died!
My trip away this weekend with my group at uni is basically a physical exercise where I have to walk speedily with a bloody 20 kilkogram weight on my back. Pray for a speedy recovery!

Anyway while I’m on the train I shall post a little rant.
Don’t you just hate it when super skinny people sit there eating junk food in front of your face! Argh!
It’s so fucking hard and so fucking expensive to eat healthy.

Anyway I have really reached an ultimatum. This is the end of my bulimia. I can’t eat normally, so the only alternative is to go back to anorexia. I cannot eat a normal meal without carrying on to a massive binge, and I can’t have a massive binge without throwing up. The fact is, I just cannot eat without throwing up. The only way I can recover from bulimia is to stop eating all together. The second I eat anything, I count up all the calories I have just consumed and then something in my head says it’s too much and I need to throw up, so something else in my head says that I may as well stuff myself with all the shit lying around and make it easier to throw it all up in one go.

I bought four magazines at the newsagent before I got on the train. Sometimes when things are just really shit and my bum is a flobby piece of grossness, I need some mega hits of thinspiration. I love the models in magazines, I love the glamour, I love their stick thin arms and super skinny legs that look like they’re carved from smoothest steel. I love their sharp cheekbones. I love their absolute, complete perfection. I don’t care if it’s fucking photoshopped. It’s perfect, and that’s what I want more than anything.

I will not stop until I look like a girl on the cover of a magazine.

I will die trying because my life is not worth living if I look like anything less.

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