More than ever before, in the mere twenty years that I have inhabited this sad planet, do I feel suspended between two particular, though familiar, states of mind. After one term at uni I'm intermitting and going back in September having persuaded myself, my friends and family that I need the time to sort things out in my silly little head, thereby forging some kind of stabilty. So I got put on the happy happy pills and, dread it as I might, intend to get some kind of counselling. And I'm desperate for a job so that I can get my own flat and stop leeching off my sister and her boyfriend. But counter-progressively, I have no intention of kicking my unhealthy eating habits. Warped as this may sound, I envy those depression sufferers who, as a result, lose their appetite: for me, weeks of melancholia and self-inflicted 'house arrest' equal perpetual cupboard raiding. Jesus fucking Christ, do I miss the feeling of a truly empty stomach.That incomparable elation, the secret smugness produced by the knowledge that the majority of the population who actually have free and abundant access to food are too weak to deny it themselves. Of course, I am aware that this view deems myself inherently weak and flawed in the eyes of society. But the wonderful paradox that serves as a self-justification is that with every pound I lose, I will look that fraction more desirable to those very same eyes. And though I generalise here, it is fruitless to argue against the paradigmatic nature of the follwing statement: fat people are aesthetically less pleasing than their thin counterparts. If the world's mass media isn't proof enough of that then, hell, I'll be prepared to repudiate all faith in the power of rational argument! Oh, how I regress.
So the moral of this tiresomely convoluted story is that you just cannot teach an old pony new tricks - even if you move it to a flatter, more spacious field and hand it a shiny new twirling baton.
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