9:44 p.m. - December 09, 2001
energy shakes and fruit
I've felt so disjointed today to the point where I should have felt incredibly stupid but don't, because I don't have sufficient mental processes. I had a dream about Erik, we were crying for unknown reasons and lost in a swamp, and later I woke up and found an old letter I wrote to him when I was thirteen, smitten beyond belief, and inside, a picture of us in eighth grade at Six Flags, next to Sylvester the Cat. Then I spoke to him on the phone and could not get the image out of my head that I was speaking to the boy in the picture, his young smile, his gray sneakers. And in that, I seemed to regress, myself, back to eighth grade Erik-correspondence... I mumbled, I forgot words, I giggled self-consciously. Much of our conversation was spent in silence. Exactly like it was then. It was creepy; I knew exactly how old we were; that we were seventeen now; seniors in high school; and comfortable now, that forced friendship gone, but I could have sworn my hair was still blond, and he was still under five feet, and that any moment Camille was going to call wanting to talk about how my plan to win him over was going. I never really had a plan. If I did, it was stupid, because it never worked. Knowing that, I was shy. And god damnit! Five years later and I can't pul myself together. I hung up, disgusted, embarrassed, although I know he couldn't care less. How many years has it been since I was terribly concerned about Erik's opinion of me? Four? Five? Give me a break.
Anyway, I keep looking in the mirror surprised to find that my hair is copper-coloured. That I can't even near to squeeze myself into a size six anymore. That my head nearly touches the doorframes, and my cheekbones have sunken in, and I can grab a handful of fat and pull on it. I used to be freakishly bony, blond, cherubic almost, the pert nose and the freckles. My face and my body have switched positions. Now you be the gaunt one, says the body to the face. All right, but only if you gain some fat, says the face to the body. And so it happens, and now I have pronounced green eyes in a concave face and bones buried in more than their share of fat. Am I complaining? I don't know. I can't fit into my clothes. I liked those clothes. But I'm far from considering diets. My food is my pleasure; what am I supposed to give it up for, energy shakes and fruit? Not fucking likely.

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