Wednesday, May 29, 2013


When I grow up I want to be an astronaut. I hope there'll be a great green light flashing in my face, a nice notice in the mail or a bubble on my screen to tell me when this happens. I hope someone would bother tpo inform me when I become a Grown Up. Maybe I should have had a big birthday party on my 18th, the type with all the ceremonies and the candles and roses and alcohol. If there was ever a tunnel that I could crawl through and emerge as a fully functioning totally not depressed adult, it would probably be hidden by the Powers That Be underneath layers of tulle. The tunnel would be guarded by trolls and a door locked twice but both unlockable with the point of a stiletto heel (also a great tool to stab the troll to death as well). Maybe I'm supposed to be a Grown U[p now, and by denying myself that fancy schmancy ritual I've denied myself passage into the Land of the Responsible and Okay.

It's alright, I spent my birthday the best I could. I went to the spa and all day I thought really really hard about why I should not walk into traffic. Maybe I should think really really hard again because I seem to have forgotten all the reasons I didn't write down but recited mentally. Except that I'm not thin enough to die. I should lose some weight. I want to go for a jog.

Oh here's another, I've just remembered: I want to be an astronaut. I want to see the world from outside of it. I want to see if there's anything worth going back to or staying for. I want to feel weightless, my god what I would pay or study or design or research just to float in the air. I want to be alone with nothing but nothing and then I want to die. Wait no sorry veered a bit off course there, nope. I just want to go to space.

Shortly after I fell sick and even less time after my father decided he was tired of having a sick daughter and I should just get better already since it was getting on his nerves, I decided I wanted to tell my dad that I wanted to be an astronaut, just to have some fresh material for car screaming matches.

Wow I sound like such an angry little brat.

It's a stupid dream but it's what I wake up for. A simplified chain of events after I lost my only reason for breathing (for the past 6 months it had been to lose weight and look skinny for prom) would have several steps, ending in Get To Space, each punctuated with a very very serious 'or die'.

But now I've gained back the weight and I should be talking about why I want to go to space, not why I want to lose inches and pounds. But here I am again, talking about a sickness and a sadness I claim to have but have no proof for. What's stopping everyone from calling me out and screaming liar liar pants on fire? Someone should. Stop letting me pretend that I have a problem when obviously I'm absolutely fine, a perfect healthy weight.

I want to get below 100 again. Then 90. Then 80. And then I will be happy and then I will not need to go to space anymore. But I wish I was stronger, I wish this was an exam I could study for since things are so much harder now and I am cracking and made of plaster and this weight is too much I want it gone. I can't I can't I can't and also I've forgotten to take my medicine and now I want to stop writing because this sounds ugly and I can't I can't I can't anymore

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