I got invited to this beach trip two weekends from now by friends who party like Cory Kennedy and I’m damn excited since it’s been months since I last went out of town. At the same time I’m worried about being the fattest girl in the group by default because I eat real food for breakfast instead of taking a cocktail of pills, and spend my evenings sleeping instead of partying hardcore. This upcoming beach trip, compounded with the pressure to be cool and my plunging self-esteem, made me decide to become skinny like a scenester in two weeks. Unfortunately for me, I discovered over the weekend that I’m not cool enough to do drugs.
During the party I held at my house on Saturday, my friend Sammi and I had a conversation about mixing marijuana and booze. Since girls with pink mohawks make me want to impress them with my drug knowledge, I proudly proclaimed that you’re supposed to do pot after drinking. Apparently, it’s the other way around. Sammi laughed at me while I hung my head in shame, and we came to the conclusion that I’m not cool enough to do drugs. As if to rub salt into my wounded ego, Sammi made me install the nickname application on my Facebook page, where she gave me the nickname Lauren “Not Cool Enough” Dado. Yeah.
See her? What a fat fat fattie.
I’m so fixated on dropping ten pounds that instead of working, I’ve been spending the entire morning thinking of ways to be cokehead skinny without actually developing a coke habit. Here are the ideas that I’ve come up with so far:
Ditch your skinny friends. Hanging out with a bunch of fatties makes you the skinniest person in the group by default. Unfortunately I don’t have this option for the beach trip, so I’ll have to resort to other methods.
Go to the gym. Ideally I should be working out around three times a week, but I’m usually too tired after work to hit the gym. Well, that’s going to change now! I solemnly swear to go to the gym after work maybe four times a week until the beach, no matter how fucking exhausted I am.
Starvation. This idea was so obvious, it took me a while to realize this. During my morning cigarette break, my coworker was telling me about how he dropped 75 pounds in college by eating nothing but soup. I have no idea how much I weigh right now but my estimate is that I must be about a hundred pounds. If I follow my coworker’s strict diet regimen, I’ll weigh 25 pounds by the time I hit the beach. I think that’s just about right.
What works for Jeffree Star will work for me too!
Throw up after every meal. I hear that this is supposed to be some eating disorder called “bulimia” but if it works for models, it might just work for me too! Then again, I can’t force myself to vomit to save my life. The idea of sticking a finger down my throat is revolting, plus it’s a waste of perfectly good food. Let’s cross this item off the list and move on to the next one.
Wear loose clothing. Really loose tops automatically make me look ten pounds skinnier than I really am, but again I don’t have this option for the beach. Unless I do a fashion faux pas and go swimming in the ocean wearing a big t-shirt instead of a bikini. Which is not exactly an option since I’m going to be with very hip people, and I’m already uncool enough as it is.
If you can’t be cokehead skinny, you could just look like a cokehead, period. All you need is smeared red lipstick, lots of black liquid eyeliner, and mad Photoshop skillz. Perfect.
Pseudo-cokehead much?
It’s that time of the month again, and I don’t mean my period. Depression, as I experience it, works like karma. For a month or two I’m happy, calm, stable, fun, and confident that I can take on all the curveballs life throws at me. Then the depression gets triggered by a minor disappointment, or something as arbitrary as the way shadows fall on a building. For about three to four weeks I move around in a zombie-like state punctuated by the occasional crying jag. Then, just as suddenly as the depression started, I bounce back into my “normal”, relatively happy self. Rise, wash, repeat.
At the moment I’m going through one of those downs and it’s gotten so bad that I actually cried in public no less than three times this week. My friends say they’ve seen me in worse shape before, so I guess there’s no reason for me to panic. It’s just one of those things I have to go through. Of course, it doesn’t make the present any less awful for me.
I noticed something interesting about this particular down though: my musical taste expanded to accommodate classic rock and folk music. Well okay, maybe it has something to do with the fact that the most depressing songs (in my opinion) fall under those genres. If you listen to most the sad songs made over the last five years, they’re usually about getting screwed over by love. Nobody sings about getting screwed over by life anymore. I don’t want to hear songs about getting dumped because I don’t have a broken heart; I have a broken soul. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. I wish I had a broken heart because at least I can point out where the problem lies. But I don’t even have the luxury of blaming some stupid boy for this horrible, inexplicable sadness I’m going through at the moment.
Because writing about depression is getting old, I figured I’d share what I think are the five most depressing songs I know. I’ve arranged them in ascending order, from the song that make me think about difficult but not entirely unpleasant things, to the song that I would most likely play whilst committing suicide, if I were actually suicidal. Which I am not.
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Last night I dreamt that all the 21-year olds in the world were struck by a debilitating disease that manifested itself as large, acne-like bumps on their skins that eventually erupted into itching, bleeding sores that spread all over the body as fast as ants can crawl. Once the body was covered in sores, the brain went next, bleeding out of both ears in gray and red wormlike chunks. As soon as the brain was done slithering out of ear canals, the person struck by the disease would be rendered incapable of speaking in coherent sentences. Then the person would commit beastly atrocities you’d never think any human being could be capable of doing. I can’t remember exactly what these atrocities were, although at some point I do recall feeling so overcome by a sense of horror that I couldn’t move a muscle even though I wanted so badly to scream and run.
I got the disease and I was panicking, crying, desperately searching for a cure because I was so so scared I’d turn into one of those moaning groaning monsters. I ran into my parents’ bedroom to ask for their help and nearly died of shock when I saw that they were covered in the scars from the red boils that once covered their clear, smooth skins. They had blood on their hands.
The disease, I was told, was called Growing Up. And there is no cure for it.
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