Slimey, grimey, blimey!

I finally moved out of my sister's and into a new place a couple of weeks ago but have been spending the majority of my time out or at my boyfriend's, so I haven't had to endure the general aura of filth that surrounds this house. My three housemates have all gone home for the holidays, which is great because I have genuinely been looking forward to cleaning this place up - yes, it's that bad. First stop is the bathroom. And considering that I actually feel more unclean after having a shower, I have a gigantasaurus-rex of a job on my hands.
So. Much. Bleach...

A bit of self-therapy.

 I've decided to compile a list of some positive and negative things in my life at the moment. Because it's good to realise I have plenty of things to be happy about. Plus, I am a little bored.

• Gave my hair the chop today, into a messy bob - it doesn't look too bad. And anyway, I like it.
• Started working at a charity fundraising call centre the weekend before last - haven't been in or even phoned up since last Friday. 'Soul destroying' doesn't cut it.
• Applied to a load of waitressing/bar jobs online today and am dropping a CV into a cute little restaurant tomorrow
• I haven't verbally communicated with anyone all day besides exchanging a few sentences on the phone whilst enquiring about a job and telling the self-checkout assistant in Tescos that "I think the sponges are too light for the... thing." I've spoken to the dog a bit but I have my suspicions that he's an alcoholic - all he says is 'wine'.
• Started chopping up and re-sewing a black lacy dress that I bought from H&M ages ago but have only worn once. I've been meaning to for ages so hopefully I'll have a lovely 'new' homemade playsuit soon.
• Was supposed to spend this evening at a hipster bar near me, watching my friend's poledancing group but she's overwhelmed with uni work.
• I'm seeing said friend tomorrow! It's been way too long.
• My hands are super sore and dry from washing them too much today.
• I have the house to myself whilst my sister and her boyfriend are in Iceland and am finally moving into my new place on Friday = I can eat/not eat whatever I like.
• I am a fatty. 120lbs is far too close to my highest weight stat. 
• I haven't felt like crying since this morning. Thank you doc for doubling my dose.

'Cause it's the ones with the sorest throats, Laura, who have done the most singing.

I seriously need to sort my life out. I'm sick to death of constantly scouring fashion blogs in some vain attempt to fire up motivation for self-improvement, yet not actually possessing the will power to make any fucking effort. But by 'self-improvement', I am of course referring to weight loss.
I can't figure out if my boyfriend's support concerning the issue is actually worsening or improving matters. In a positive sense, he's only the second person I've been able to even partially confide in, in terms of my eating issues - even my previous long-term boyfriend and still very close friend was actually physically sickened when, after snooping through my drawers, his suspicions were confirmed. So in that sense, I am very lucky to be with someone who I can be a bit more relaxed around. And, hell, perhaps one day he could help me recover - not that he isn't trying now. It's tough though since he himself has problems with eating. It's not so much to do with weight or body image but he has major issues with digestion, like he can't bear the thought of all the badness in his body. He apparently has a load of habitual habits, still unbeknown to me, so his eating disorder is more anxiety/OCD based. He claims that because of these habits, he feels more robot than human. It sounds melodramtic, and the guy has suffered from depression for most of his life, but the way he says it is so level-headed and accepting - coupled with, "I didn't deal with it when I was younger and I just don't want to see you end up like me" - I'm more torn than ever before between wanting to be thin and wanting to just accept the way I look.
But since I've started actively dealing with my depression, I really feel that I need this form of control, this illusion of power and achievement. I've been self-harming for about five years now and the scars on my arms have been visible to my friends and family for the past two with little intervention from them. But since I had to get my wrists stitched up over the Christmas holidays it really hit home how selfish and insensitive I've been by making no attempt to recover. But I'm not yet at the point where talking about what goes on in my head makes me feel any better either. So until I figure out a less destructive way to deal with my petty insecurities and anxieties, I'm sticking with the 'no food for fatty' policy.
For better or for worse, Amen.

Sprung a leek?

Leek and green bean soup

1/2 a leek
Handful of fine green beans
A few pinches of chopped parsley
1 tsp dried herbs (not great but I had to use tarragon)
1 vegetable stock cube 
Bowl of water
Pepper to taste

Chop up the vegetables and add to a pan of boiling stock-cube water. Simmer until green beans start to soften then add parsely, herbs and pepper to taste. Keep it simmering until it's boiled up a treat and serve. (Disclaimer: not recommended for dinner parties, or anybody else other than yourself for that matter)

Less than 100 calories, mmmm...

My 'Beggars can't be Choosers' recipe project

The non-committal nature of my job hunting tactics renders me indefinitely (and not surprisingly) unemployed. Now, when I say I have no money, I mean it in a very literal sense - less than 50p on my card AFTER my 1000 squid student overdraft, 30p mocks my sad, sad purse and a pint glass full of coppers (totalling just over £3) which I am saving in case of an 'emergency'. Despite the implied derision of myself, packed into those two little apostrophes, the word maybe carries a little more weight considering that I ran out of tobacco days ago and have had to make do with leeching the odd death stick off of my boyfriend or sister (who will be home from work in less than one hour...). Those who smoke and don't eat can surely empathise with me there.
By the by, I am left with no choice but to sift through the butter and cheese, part the fields of bread and wilfully push aside the boxes of fish fingers and other such dubiously coloured delights, in order to reach my destination - the predominately empty salad tray. Now, I have no right to complain but big sis can't really cook - she and her boyfriend work full time and thus are fast-food advocates, when funds permit. So in a defence against scurvy, I have started cooking supper and stressing the importance of vegetables. Behold, the staple of my 'Beggars can't be Choosers' recipe colletion. And the neccessity of lowering my taste-buds' standards. 

...And every sentence that I spoke began and ended in ellipses...

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.

HOW

did I get to 120lbs?!
Of course, this question is entirely rhetorical considering my unabated binging over the past couple of weeks.
I cannot describe how naseous that makes me feel but that's exactly what motivated me to bite the bullet and haul my fat ass onto those scales. 
It's now quarter past two and all I've had is an apple so I'm determined not to cave and raid the kitchen.
I'm studying Jane Eyre next term and it's doing a pretty good job keeping me engrossed. And reading about such a destitute, melancholy character suppresses my appetite somehow.
Onwards and upwards!

Gettin' ink dun.

My much beloved Wind-Up Bird tattoo - courtesy of a very talented stranger! Thank you, 'pokedyoureyeout.'

Knee-Literature.

I definitely should have spent the evening revising, or at least doing something mentally progressive. As it stands, I drew 1920s-esque faces on my knees and found a suitable F. Scott Fitzgerald quote to accompany them.

"I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic."

"But it's on you for life!",,,

... My mother's reaction to my first two tattoos. So, of course I'm getting another! Although this one is going to be pretty well hidden so I won't get any grief about it and she'll be none the wiser. Since Murakami is one of my favourite authors and I never want to forget the beauty of his novels, I figured that having the Wind-Up Bird permanently inked onto my skin should make for a pretty obvious reminder! I'm not a huge fan of most tattoos but I think they can look particulrly good on the ribs. For example...

Of course, I would love to have her figure too but I guess the more meat on my bones, the less excruciating it will be.
It's a good enough excuse for now at least.

Recipe of the Day.

A wholesome bowl of history revision

Ingredients:

• A stack of paper, assorted coloured pens and a regular smorgisboard of reading material on American history
• One packet of oatcakes
• One apple - chopped
• A mug for green tea and black coffee - amount moderated to personal preference
• Plenty of water
• Tobacco. Lots and lots of tobacco.

(Serves 1)

Instructions:

1. Wake up nice and early for maximum revision time following by 1 - 2 cups of black coffee
2. Spread out notes. Flick through reading material. Smoke a cigarette. Check emails. Smoke another cigarette. Write something partially incomprehensible. Smoke another cigarette in recognition of your good work.
3. Intersperse 'revision' with much liquid drinking, much less calorie intake and the odd break for Mad Men (cue the inevitability of further smoking)
4. Repeat process until your eyes blur, your limbs ache and you start speaking in an American accent.

Lose a pound, gain an A level! I'm seeing this one right up there with the best mantras.

Some poetry, of course.

I picked up a Rupert Brooke anthology whilst helping my pa move house the other day and after reading up about him on the internet found myself wondering why, oh, why had it taken me so long to discover him! A few of his poems brought tears to my eyes. There's something comforting in the knowledge that I can still be so acutely affected by the written word. Something that, however fleetingly, can lift the deadening weight on my chest. I guess I'm an old romantic at heart.

The Busy Heart
Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,
I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)
I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;
Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;
And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;
And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;
And evening hush, broken by homing wings;
And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,
That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,
Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,
One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

I see outfits like this, fall in love with them and then swiftly realise that I'd need to be at least two stone lighter to to even consider wearing them. Any advice on a good leg elongater would be duly welcomed too!