Once again the mind of a brute struck me!
The exasperating feeling of my body becoming lighter. The likelihood of my footsteps landing softer on pavement. The ailing reflection of an aura becoming comforted by much refinement in femininity.
I don’t question the bully who mocks my pacing of an indecisive vista of a prize to be earned. I plunge uncertain in the continuous reel of a rampant stomach bloated like a tub full of fat-bellied quadruplets with my menstrual cycle stringing my hormones in high streaks similar to the musical score of The Shining.
I qualm in a horrid practice of running around every inch of the apartment as if my ass caught fire and all the imaginative ants dropped onto the floor burnt over self-indulgent panic attacks and suddenly I’m at square one bemused due to the fear and speculation of losing weight.
Why am I dieting better?
All day and night I’ve dressed in layers of overbearing shapeless clothing in attempts to hide any inch that might have been vanished from sight. I’m utterly exhausted in this heat and humidity of both my bloody rotation and the gloom of New York City weather copying the cat of Seattle.
I dislike the idea, the thought and the response of being remotely skinny.
Shrinking down into the thought of centimeters torments my fragile ego. I feel like at any moment I’ll drown and disappear resembling the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz except water wouldn’t be the offender in this self-made barrier.
Is physical existence vastly different from my mass taking up space on Earth?
(I’m unfamiliar about Science.)
Stupidly and viciously I jumble the idea of ‘size and weight’ as if they equal to muscle defeat when they don’t. But in this fictitious brain of mine I cannot get over this cemented design as of yet. Sooner or later I must breakthrough one of my mental hurdles.
Like my Partner in Crime has stated, ‘You shouldn’t be resistant to the idea of losing weight as long as it’s the right kind.’ But many concepts are easier declared than done.