I Did A Thing For YOU, That I’ve Never Done For ANYONE — When I Wasn’t Drunk

I took elicit photographs of my body for the explicit purpose of this post.

I’m no longer writing this anonymouslyif I ever wasso there’s my face!…for the world to see. The jig is up. This is me. I covered my new scars for you. You’re welcome.

If you know the people written about in this blog, well, I’m sorry if it bothers you — and by that — I mean my honesty about those people that maybe you think is untrue, unfair, or incredibly self-serving — but fuck you if you don’t believe what I write here.

I’d never lie here.

This is what I do.

I write gritty, honest to God fucking facts about things that happened to me. Check the naturally curly hair, if you will. And ballin’ boots.


Like, I’m COMPLETELY NAKED under those clothes!


Oh, so sexy! LOL!



These were taken in my bedroom mirror. You can check my super cool boots, jeans, tank top, scars, tats, whatever — but I’m not letting ya’ll into my bedroom just yet.

Unless I can somehow make my Mom RICH by getting naked for a camera, I’m afraid, at least at this point in my life, that’s the nakedest you’re probably going to get — all up in this blog. Sorry not sorry AT ALL.

Those pictures are about you needing to see my body — in order to, like — quiet your questions about the fact that I’m about to write about my eating disorder that isn’t an eating disorder at all — except for the fact that I don’t ever want to eat, and — I would guess — four to six days of the week — I don’t. If you do not believe me, I can literally prove it.

I don’t know if it is my medications, my vitamins, or Pedialyte that keeps me going, but “thanks” to whatever it is.

So, the pictures above are of me dancing in completely different states of dressed. (That’s the saying, right? LMFAO.)

I really don’t care what you think of my body.

I don’t maintain it, utilize it, or worship it, for anyone but me. ACCEPT THAT. It’s a fact — between now and when I’m with — “the one” — who I may marry — or will call my partner for life — that it’s all mine. It’s my best asset.

If you want to call me fat, that’s fine by me!

Fact: being fat doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful. Fact: I know I’m not “hot,” and I’m not trying to be, in any of these pictures; I actually took them FOR YOU, READER, while I was dancing today in my bedroom. Fact: Bears beat Battlestars.

My/The point in sharing ANY of these potentially embarrassing photos is to prove to you that I am aware that I’m not skinny — especially for someone who doesn’t eat.

And there’s a reason for that, probably.

I guess I’m showing you that I’m chubby and I know it (and I own it) — so my incredibly ridiculous failure to eat isn’t because it’s going to continue to make me thinner. It hasn’t yet. And this has been going on for a long time. Look at that chub! I’m not thinner. It’s been suggested that my body is holding onto everything it can because I don’t eat.

Whatever, man. Life. Am I right?

On a kind of a different but similar note, I am not into “really skinny” guys — which sucks when I imagine fucking movie stars like Ezra Miller (https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3009232/?ref_=tt_cl_t5)! Jesus Christ his face is beautiful and I want to have him.

But, I’m into a bit of the chub.

Some extra loving.

Muscles instead of chub also works.

But straight up skinny or short (I’m 5′ 8″) — I can’t. Sorry not sorry.

Very importantly, I also want you to know that I HATE wasting food because of [infinite reasons here]. I never waste food if I can at all help it. So, that means, if a Blizzard hits, I’d be a pretty good person to know. Get it? I have lots of non-perishables, because I don’t eat, so perishables would be wasted on me.

Once again, I have several conjectures as to what is going on other than those written above. Maybe I’m not mentally healthy enough to feel like I should take care of myself insofar as I need sustenance to survive. Maybe I wish I were a size four again, although, as I’ve said, I really hated being hit on so much when I was skinny (and thus to many of those who are not me — “hot”). Maybe something else is going on. I don’t know.

What I DO know is that I don’t crave food. I don’t enjoy eating.

I don’t care about it at all.

Meals are not a priority to me, unless I am making one to feed someone else. I will open my fridge, see limitless possibilities, and close it again, unable to even utilize my microwave to feed myself — oh so fucking easily.

I feel the need to once again remind you that this isn’t about weight — CONSCIOUSLY.

I try so fucking hard to cook and feed myself. Every day, it’s a fucking nightmare of a struggle.

I. Just. Don’t. Care.

Living alone also means I can FINALLY fucking walk around in my underwear and t-shirt when I am home without my ex grabbing my ass.

“Oh, that’s sooooo horrible!” men and some women may sarcastically react.

Well, although I get your point, it was actually horrible. I’m a sexual assault victim.  Like, period. I’ve been sexually assaulted at least three dozen times. So — that shit? — fucking matters.

So what did Mr. Ex do? He would wait until I was up to my elbows in soap and water washing his dishes (he ate a LOT — and I don’t eat…remember?), and he would come up behind me — stick his junk into my backside — and grab my breasts — because, duh, I was helpless to stop him(!!!!!!!!) with a glass in one hand and and a sponge in my other.

Still think I’m a Bitch and he’s a great guy, those of you who did?

That behavior is fucking RIDICULOUS. It’s pathetic and sad. If he was SO HORNY he really should have just fucking left and fucked all the (of age) teenagers he’s into in the ass so I didn’t have to deal with his disgusting dick.

EVEN AFTER I TOLD HIM HE WAS LITERALLY MOLESTING ME (definition: “sexual assault or abuse of a person, especially a woman or child,” or, “the action of pestering or harassing someone in an aggressive or persistent manner“), his reaction was, “I don’t like when you put it like that. Don’t say it like that. That makes me feel like a creep.” He’d complain that if I would just let him touch me “normally,” he wouldn’t have to do things like that. MOTHER-FUCKING ASSHOLE of a GUY.

So, yeah. That’s basically the meat of the onion of this post.

Oh, and if I dated or hooked up with you in any meaningful capacity, you should expect you will at some point — if you have not been already — part of this blog. Everything is “game” now. I’m doing this for real. It’s my life.

Sleep well, everyone. I’ll write more tomorrow.

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