Snowball's Chance in a Blizzard

Fact

Week the third of starving myself to a better me and my mind is starting to rebel. Calorie intake fluctuating between the low 800s and high 500s. My temper and concentration are starting to suffer, but fuck it. 40 kilos overweight isn’t pretty, and I’m sick of this. Part of it may be rebellion against my parents for forcing their perspective of beauty on me. Most of the time I’m fine with myself, but I’m sick of being pressured to fit into their version of what I should look like. Maybe I’ll try refusing to eat, something different than my usual MO, see how they like how fucking with my head for I don’t know how many years backfiring. Something you should know about me, most of my motivations have to do with my parents.

Sort of Fiction

I knew a girl who wore a small silver razorblade that hung from a black leather thong she wore around her neck. One day I asked her why. Her mouth tightened as she held it, blunt edges digging into thumb and forefinger. She told me it was protection against the dark. I knew of no talisman that involved razorblades. She raised an eloquent shoulder and said that sometimes the symbolism was the only thing that kept her from taking the real thing to her wrists. She pressed it fondly to her lips and let it fall back between her breasts.