I HATE ONLINE DATING. SERIOUSLY WTF.

"And I let it all out to find that I'm not the only person with these things in mind."

HAPPY CHRISTMAS LADIES AND GENTS!!!! Hope you are all having a good holiday season, one way or another. 

So a couple of things have been happening. SERIOUSLY, I HATE ONLINE DATING. I have no idea why I did this! It's killing me!!!!! And really, it just shows how paranoid I am as a person. I am definitely losing my grip on life though, I don't know what to do about it. I just wish I had never done it, then I would be in the midst of this self inflicted mental torture. 

So this is what I'm doing (yes, I know how mental it is. I know it's paranoid. I know it's stalker-ish. I know it is just plain wrong): I'm signing into the online dating site, just to see if the guy I'm seeing is still using his account. And what do you know, he is like, permanently on there! His account is so bloody active, which makes me feel great. 

We've been on 3 dates now. And the last date, it was so nice. We had dinner by the beach, we went for a relaxing walk along the beach, holding hands, or with his arm around me. We stopped and kissed. It was honestly probably one of the nicest dates I've ever been on. 

I admit I was a bit smitten afterwards. But now I know for sure that he's been on there since our date and it makes me want to kick my own head in. I don't ever want to check again, but I also can't stop doing it. It's a real problem! And it's all in my head. 

Part me really wants to just flat out ask him, how many other girls are you seeing. Are you interested in me at all, or are you just courting a big group of us and seeing who comes up trumps? Fuck. 

There is only one good side effect in all of this. I can't eat. At all. 

By my home scales, before I met up with him 2 weeks ago, I weighed in at 62.8kg. Now I'm weighing in at 59kg. So you know, that's reasonable. I'm happy with that! I can feel the difference, but it's not enough for anyone to notice, it's not enough to show in the way clothes fit. It's just not enough. 

But given the way my weight has been going, I'm just glad it's finally going in the right direction. Basically, I'll take what I can get. 

Today I ate...chicken noodle soup, half a bowl of that for lunch. 2 flat whites. 3 bites of salad for dinner. That's it. I don't know how many calories that is...maybe...500-600. Maybe a bit less. Every time I think about him, I want to vomit. I hope this feeling lasts forever. 

"Well, you're not a virgin anymore."

"Baby be the class clown, I'll be the beauty queen in tears."

So a lot has happened since I last posted here. An awful lot. And I've learnt a lot about myself. I've been out with my cop many, many times. And the odd thing is, he's not my boyfriend. Definitely not. I have absolutely no idea what is happening between us at all. All I know is that when I'm with him, things seem to be easy. And when I'm with him, I forget about everything. 

Yes, I have my moments filled with self doubt when we're not together but those are largely my issues, as opposed to issues with us. I'm already feeling guilty about things. I don't exactly have time for him. I'm ALWAYS at work, and this is making me realise just how much I work. I work a lot. He works on average 40 hours a week in various shifts. I work on average 65 hours. His longest shift is 9 hours. The longest shift I've ever worked is 16 hours. I'm starting to understand why I'm always tired. 

The other day I had a terrible day at work. Was supposed to meet up with him afterwards but I ended up finishing 3 hours late, crying and in tears. It had been the shittiest day on record ever. I text him, saying that I was gross, had had a shit day, was super late, and he really probably shouldn't see me. I mean, I had changed into scrubs because everything was so shit. People were dying, people were being transferred to ICU, it was just thoroughly shit. After all, by the time I was finished with work, he was due to start his night shift in 2 hours.

He ended up just saying I should come over. And so I did, I was too numb to do anything else really. I sort of stood forlornly on his doorstep for a few seconds and as soon as he opened the door, he just wrapped his arms around me, maneuvered me into his room and we flopped onto his bed. For an hour we just lay there like that, he had wrapped himself around me and was talking about random things and I really did just completely forget about work. 

The night before we had tried to have sex. And I say "tried" because we had to stop because I was so bleedy and paining. I mean, I knew it was going to be like that, I think I freaked him out a bit by being bleedy. I didn't mind the bleeding, but it was so damn painful. He said he didn't want to hurt me, and that we'd take things slow because it was my first time, and that I'd start to enjoy it with time. "Well, you're not a virgin anymore." He tells me as he puts his arm around me and just cuddles me for a while. 

I don't exactly know how I feel about that. But we've gone out a few times since then. And I certainly hope to be in his pants again before I jet away to Melbourne on holiday.

Now ladies, I need some advice - I've never been in a relationship before and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing and how things are going...any comments/advice/heckling is welcome. 

Thank you in advance!

my guy

"Living just to find emotion hiding somewhere in the night."

Well ladies, I did say in my last post that I would write about the first date in more detail once I calmed down a bit, but now it is becoming abundantly clear that I will never calm down and so I might as well just bite the bullet and write this post. 

I'm desperately trying to think of ways to describe my man. Firstly, I'm calling him "my man", so that at least gives some indication of where my head is at. Secondly, it's 3am, and I'm on night shift at work, so I do give myself permission to wax lyrical if I so choose. 

I should start off by saying that I have no idea what  my relationship status is right now. One date doesn't qualify as anything really. Certainly not for him. It means a lot to me, because there were a whole lot of firsts for me in that one package, but he's definitely been there, done that. So we met up at a nice beach, went for a walk along it, just chatting. He told me about his screed of ex-girlfriends, most of which scared the bejeezus out of me. I'm certainly different from the rest of them! Not sure if that's a good thing or not. 

He told me about his ambitions, and really, it was like the worse job interview ever. He kept telling me about stuff that he's good at. Well, I guess it worked because I was fucking impressed. In an odd way, I was doing the opposite. Like, I'm not that great, please don't be disappointed.  

We walked for about an hour, totally didn't realise it was for that long, and he took me to a cafe for another hour or so and a chat. And over coffee he was telling me about his house. 

"If you like, I can give you a tour." He said tentatively. And so we went back to his place. Which apparently is not normal for a first date according to most of my friends. And I guess that for my first date ever, it was a little out of the ordinary. But it felt right and I felt safe and so I went. 

He showed me around the house, showed me the renovations that he had been doing and then showed me his room. Let me say right off the bat that he owns some damn good music. So he played me some music as we sat on his bed and chatted some more. And he started getting quite touchy. I mean, when we were on our walk, he was helping me up and he'd tap me every now and then to redirect me. But in his room, he was tickling me (way too much) and sliding his hand up and down my leg. 

Come leaving time, he walked me to my car, and just as I was about to get in, he grabbed me and pulled me into him and kissed me. Out there in the bitter cold, on the road by my car. I had expected maybe a little kiss, a quick peck, or even just a peck on the cheek. After all, he does know I've never had a boyfriend before, never been kissed. 

But it wasn't like that at all. He was very gentle, just wrapped me in his arms and then I suddenly found myself in a long, passionate kiss, tongues and all. When we broke apart I was quite speechless, and just when I was about to break away, he pulls me close again, tilts my chin and we're off again. 

the unlikeliest of thinspirations

"You will never escape from this sad, sad house. I take his hand, we sink."

I've just had the unlikeliest of thinspos pop up in my life. And before I start, here is a disclaimer that what I am about to say is sick, depraved, and an absolutely deplorable example of the awful human being that I am. I don't want any of you to take up the same example...I'm just trying to get this out of my head. 

I've often wandered how fast someone can lose weight. Often wandered how it was possible to drop several dress sizes in next to no time at all. But now that I have seen a real life example of it with my own eyes, well. 

Let's set the scene. It's an ex-patient of mine, who lost more than 20kg in 6 weeks. Okay, so here is the bad part, he has cancer. Pretty end stage too. No appetite whatsoever, lived off a few spoons of supplement every day for 6 weeks and lost 20kg. If we take the cancer out of the equation, and say the weight loss is about 12-15kg with a normal person and reduced food intake. 

So trying to tweak the equation further, and put the weight loss at 8-10kg over 6 weeks if I drink...a few coffees a day, trim at that, and eat maybe one or two pieces of fruit. And...maybe 6kg over 4 weeks if I can keep it up.

I have lost nearly 10kg in 4-6 weeks before. So it must be possible. And that was eating normally on weekends and liquid fasting. 

The reason I'm so focussed on 4-6 weeks is because in that timespan, I will be going to Australia to see my friend, during which time I will be shopping up a storm. I'd love to buy small, skinny clothes. I'd also love for her to be able to see a difference in my weight. It must be possible. I just have to set my mind to it. 

I am well aware of how sick it is to have a dying patient of mine as thinspo, but it probes to me that it's possible. And the only way I can mimic a cancer is to have absolutely rigid self control. All I can do is try really. I'll keep you updated. 

well, it's a good job, better than a courier driver. that's the worst job ever.

"Roll the window down, this cool night air is curious."

Well, nothing to report on the weight front I'm afraid. My eating is more erratic than ever. I've gone back to eating whenever I get the chance and eating whatever I can get my hands on. Unfortunately this usually means something fried at the hospital staff canteen. When I'm not at work I'm out with the boys, at dessert places and eating salted caramel gelato and things like that. 

I'm updating you all because I absolutely MUST tell you about this guy. The other night my mother had a car accident, she's not hurt at all, our car is a bit damaged, but it was a 4 car pile up on the motorway and so the police were all up in it. 

Dad and I had to go pick her up from the scene, and that is where I met THE HOTTEST COPPER I HAVE EVER SEEN. He was tall, rather well built, and extremely handsome. Short, close cut blonde hair, great jaw and cheekbones and smiling eyes. When we arrived dad ran straight for mum, and I was asking about what happened. The first thing he told me was that my mum had told them that I was a doctor. The second thing he said was, "I don't suppose you doctors have much time for dating?" 

And I, stupidly, did not know how to respond. He asked me what hospital I worked for, was surprised that he had never seen me before as he was often there patrolling. Asked for my name and gave me his and that's the end of that really. Oh, and he waved at me from his patrol car as he drove past. 

Still, I've been thinking about him since then. God, I'd love to fuck him. I do hope I bump into him again. Somehow. I'm admitting in ED tomorrow and I'll be dressing well, just on the off chance that I do bump into him. You never know. 

In the meantime I've been telling all my friends about him. I have to say...even I thought he was slightly hitting on me. Which was nice, because I don't think anyone has done that before. Made me feel quite cute. 

losing weight! and fucking engaged.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep." 

Let's start on a good note. THE DRESS FITS. IT FUCKING FITS NOW. It is night number 4, I don't know how much weight I've lost but I'm now at 120lbs and the dress fits. Part of me is SO RELIEVED. That is a Vivienne Westwood dress, not cheap, so when it didn't fit, my heart just sank. I can't say it's a perfect fit, the buttons up the front are tight, and it doesn't look great when the buttons pull...but the point is, I can get it on...and I've yet to work night number 4, so I'm not even halfway there yet. 

I'm hoping by the end of 7 nights, I will be properly fitting that dress. Not just squeezing into it. And just like last night, the start of night number 4 and the nausea is setting in. Something about night shifts does that to you. I still eat my one meal a day, but the amount that I'm able to eat is steadily decreasing. 

Look down at my tummy, see rolls of fat, feel disgusted. Squeeze the fat all over my body, feel even more disgusted. I am still so fat. I am so fat that it makes me feel sick. Fat and bloated. I need to start working out but I'm so tired. So very tired. 

I've decided that with my next pay cheque, I am going to buy myself a coffee machine. It's probably not a great investment, but whatever it takes to get through right?

So some news, I've found out that Joe is FUCKING ENGAGED. I am completely and utterly mindblown at this news. When I heard, I was like...W.T.F. I guess I feel there is something in him that is so un-marriable. Well, maybe for me anyway. Even though I am in such disbelief, now that I know who is fiancee is, a lot of things make more sense. His fashion sense for one. 

See, I've always believed that the way a man dresses can be a dead giveaway to his relationship status. Joe has always puzzled me. His shirts and pants are always well ironed and he is always well groomed, but, but, his shoes! And the style of his clothes are so...off. I had written it off as him having like, an OCD complex about wrinkles or him having a really nice mum who still does it. But his wife! (future wife) Absolutely lovely girl. Delightful, I really like her, but the woman has no taste in clothes. It's a pity too. She's absolutely cute as a button, but dresses like...well, if I were to ever dress like that it would signify me completely giving up on life, but I guess fashion just doesn't matter that much to her. 

Funny thing is, when I heard the news I just felt the wave of hate crash into me. There is so much hate flowing through me that it gives me energy. I can't sleep. Which sucks because I'm on night shift. I can't eat. Which is a lie because I stuff my face every evening. (On a side note, I am losing weight despite the fact that I eat each night and haven't gone to the bathroom for days so yay.) I can't fucking do anything. All I want to do is run, but I can't because of the torrential rain outside. 

I can't work out who the hate is directed towards. Do I hate Joe? His fiancee? Or myself. I'm not sure. And I don't know how to work it out. All I know is that I hate something. And boy, do I FUCKING HATE IT. I want to fuck something up real bad....reeeeeal bad. I don't know what I want to do. I want to hit something. 

And something inside me just feels dead. 

And a voice inside is starting to scream and wail. You stupid idiot. You broke the one rule. Always presume they are taken until proven otherwise. The one time you break the rule, look at what happens. You fucking broke the rules. And what are you going to do now? Try to fill a hole inside you that you never knew you had but secretly hoped Joe would fill. Now he can never fill it. But food won't fill it either. 

Yes, yes, hope is gone and all that stupid crap. But live in the moment and the only thing that remains now is how you deal with it. Think of it this way. There is a space to fill. If you are smaller, that space will also get smaller and smaller until it goes, and then there will be no hole to fill, and then you will be okay again. Now isn't that a better, more logical solution than eating your pain away. 

living a life of excess

"Digging to the rhythm and the echo of a solitary siren, one that pushes me along and keeps me so desperate and ravenous, so weak and powerless."

Well. As this rotation goes on, parts of me are dying off. Dying off. I apologise for the lack of posts lately but I've just finished a 13 day stretch of work, I have a day off, and I'm about to start a 14 day stretch of work, including 7 night shifts before I have another day off and go into, this time, just 5 days before a weekend. Fuck me. Which means that in just over a month, I'll have 4 days off. Fuck me. I'm so burned out already and I'm even halfway there. 

I have a vague memory of complaining on here, or complaining to a friend of mine (see, I'm so tired I can't separate my blog from my real life) that Joe was too busy to notice that I fancied him like all hell. But fuck me, now I AM too busy to notice that I fancy him. So how can I expect him to notice. 

When I have quiet moments, I sit and think of Joe and in those moments I want nothing more than for him to just wrap his arms around me. Now I understand why older doctors were urging me to start dating in medical school, because when you work, you actually do not have the time. I'm sure it's not possible. 

It's hard to describe what it feels like to work this much. I mean, through 6 years of medical school I've listened to all my predecessors complaining about their working hours and telling me to leave hospital early whenever possible. But to be working these shifts, wow. I have so much respect for my colleagues and everyone who has gone before me. This is fucking hard, getting up at 5am every morning, going to bed past midnight. I have moments during the day when I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But a coffee fixes that. 

Meanwhile I've been living some sort of mad life of excess. In all regards. I swear this is the longest PMS session I've ever had. I've been eating like mad. I had this insane moment of sudden clarity...I've gained all the weight I've lost, was complaining to my friend about being fat when I looked down at the Carl's Jr Oreo Ice Cream Thickshake in my hand and was like, oh. 

There are no words to describe how much I've been eating. I've also started drinking calories. Normally it's water, or coke zero, or zero calorie ginger beer. I've started drinking things that have calories! On top of all that food! 

But food, weight, whatever, I know I can restrict and go and lose it all again. Suddenly I have confidence in that aspect of myself. But fuck me, it's the spending. 

I've spent $1000 on ASOS on wintery things. Then wanted to whip myself because I have more than enough of wintery things. Then a day later I spent $1500 at Alannah Hill (if you don't know her, look her up...that shit is beautiful...in fact, here is a link to her online shop) on more cardigans that I don't need. The only thing that I bought there that I definitely needed was my graduation dress, although that's an arguable point because I had previously spent $1500 at the Alannah Hill outlet in Melbourne, including a graduation dress just a few weeks ago. Then went and bought $300 worth of shoes...which is only 2 pairs, but I guess last week I spent $500 on shoes...wow this sounds bad. 

But it goes on. Then I bought a $500 leather jacket from Oasis, which was dumb because I already have a beautiful Michael Kors leather jacket. Anyway. Then I went onto the Outnet, because I decided I could not quite afford Net-A-Porter, and bought a Vivienne Westwood dress, a pair of Alexander McQueen trousers and a pair of Nicholas Kirkwood pumps. Which came to a sum that I am too embarrassed to tell you about. 

Fuck that is a lot of money. FUCK. It looks even worse written down like that. 

Well it seems to be keeping me sane through the work. Which is something I guess. 

PMS IS A FUCKING BITCH!!!!!!!

"I don't need a reason to hate you the way I do."

FUCKING HELL. Okay, I am absolutely sure I am PMSing, I know this, and yet I cannot stop myself becoming crazy psycho bitch cow. CRAZY PSYCHO BITCH COW!!!! RAWR!!!!!

Oh the anger that runs through my veins, you could bottle it and then hurl it at people as some sort of flash bomb. And I don't even know why I am so angry, I can't explain it. I just am. I just feel like destroying something. 

Well, I finally had the coffee date with Joe. Not exactly in the circumstances that I would have liked, him coming off two consecutive 20 hour working days and working today before doing tonight's night shift and me about to face two consecutive 20 hour working days over the weekend. We were both...not so much in a good mood, still, with a load of work on both our backs, we sat and had coffee for an hour before going to round together. 

Didn't help matters by wearing a pair of GORGEOUS (but quite tall) green suede heels. My feet were sore like all hell. Sore, like all hell! Neither of us had anything to look forward to and I think we were giggling out of sheer despair. 

I feel so confused after today. A big part of it is the PMS. I've never actually been annoyed at Joe before, despite all his short comings and faults, they've been okay. And weirdly enough, I felt annoyed because he was walking too fast. And I had to keep asking him to wait for me while I clattered behind him in my heels. 

Of all the things that should bug me, it was that that got to me the most. I felt like, I'd made such an effort to make life easier for him, most of which I don't even think he noticed, he couldn't even think to walk a tiny bit slower? I wanted to dip my stilettos in a wound full of pus and then stab him with it. 

Maybe he just needs to chill the fuck out. Go far away and forget everything. And just chill the fuck out. If I wasn't PMSing, I would say that I wanted to whisk him away for a weekend and do nothing. But since I am full of PMS, I want to knock him unconscious, stuff him into a bag and ship him off to somewhere else. Christ. SO FUCKING MAD!!! 

I think Joe's pretty aware of my crazy coming out. I was properly angry at him today. No doubt, after I bleed myself out, I will miss him and regret all this, but until that happens I will continue on my homicidal rampage. 

It's probably all a sign that Joe just isn't into me. And that's fine. If he's not into me then he's not. There's no two ways about that. Yes, it sucks somewhat. The more time I spend with him, the more I realise that he hasn't got a clue what's going on. He has no idea. He's too busy and too stressed to realise that I'm trying. I don't think he'll ever realise.

Well fuck that. 

This crazy psycho bitch cow is going to focus on weight. I should've known to venture into the fuzzy romantic side of life was a mistake. 

Tattoos are awesome.

"You have a gentle nature." Words that I will hold onto for the rest of my life. 

So. This is my awesome new tattoo. About half way through, I realise that the guy doing my tat...this is his first day on the job, and my tat is the second one he's EVER done. I did have a minor heart attack, but in the end, he did a FANTASTIC job. 

The tattoo is better than the picture I provided and that's awesome. I'm happy with it, so happy with it. I feel so complete. 

I got us coffee.

Haters gonna hate. 

Well with those wise words from ASLNik on my last post, I'm going in to book my next tattoo on Monday. Need to get it drawn up first, but then I will get it done. Thanks for your comment, and you've voiced what I've often thought myself...my scars, tattoos, they are all part of my story, and are all part of what made me what I am today. 

Even though I may have changed, it's always important to remember where I came from, and to remember why I am the way I am. Fuck, you're right. If a guy is going to love me, he will love me, tattoos and all. If he can't handle a tattoo, he sure as hell won't be able to handle my other problems. 

So...my calorie count for today was...700 or 800 calories, because I have no idea if that was trim milk or regular milk in my coffee. I was stunned when I realised for the first time that in a large coffee, there was more than 100cal difference between trim milk and regular milk. 

Totally 300cal more than I needed or wanted. But what's done is done and all in all I had a good day. 

There was teaching this morning, I sat there with the junior doctors, crammed around a computer screen. All of us tired and fading away. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there is a hand, holding a cup of coffee, creeping over my shoulder, jiggling it in my face. I summon the energy that does not exist to drag myself out of the stupor and grab it. 

The warmth from the paper cup creeps up my fingers, my arms, into the core of me and suddenly I realise everyone is staring at me with a mixture of envy and amazement in their eyes. I turn around and I see my registrar Cam smiling down at me. "I was a bit late to that meeting so I decided to gap it and get us coffee." 

There is an unspoken law that the most junior member of the team gets the coffee, and he's just broken it. Everyone is dumbstruck for a moment, even me. As he sits down beside me and listens in to teaching, I feel like the cat that got the cream. With a face like a smug dog, I look around at the other house surgeons thinking, jealous bitches? Not that they notice, of course, they are too busy staring at the coffee. 

Later that day Cam calls me. Are you okay?--- What?--- You haven't called me all day so  got worried. ---I saw you 2 hours ago Cam. Everything is still okay.--- Oh. I was worried because I hadn't heard from you.--- Okay.--- I'll call you again later. 

I call him an hour later, jobs all done. He must be in the middle of clinic but we have a long chat, full of laughs and profanity. I tell him I'm going onto nights. He says he'll miss me. Gosh. I'd TOTALLY be the cat who got my pot of cream, except for the fact that Cam is very much married. Why are all the good ones married? But I suppose that questions answers itself doesn't it. 

skin tight biker pants

"A name in your recollection, down among a million same. Difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed and passed over."

With some trepidation I pull out the black, faux leather, biker pants that I bought in the UK on one of my spending sprees. I didn't really fit them at the time, but it was one of those things that I bought with the hope of one day fitting them. And I do! Well, sort of. I can put them on, with a bit of unflattering tugging and pulling and for the most part I can spend the day in them. They would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if I were a few pounds less, but at least I know I'm making some sort of progress. 

It is a small success in my world that is not so much full of successes. I don't know what the matter is with me. I've been feeling incredibly down. Ancient feelings that I thought were dead and buried are stirring up inside me again. The professor has sent me a rather terse email, telling me not to pester him, he's doing much more important things than my research. And although I know it's true, and I knew I shouldn't have reminded him about my research, it's hard for me not to feel just a little bit shit. 

I worried about how it might affect my career for about half a second when something inside me corrected that track of thinking. Hang on, I'm now 23, going to be 24 at the end of the year. I have always planned to be dead by 27, which is only 3-4 years away. Why worry about a career? I'll be dead before any of that can happen. 

It has been a long time since I seriously thought about suicide. I will always have moments when I toy with the idea of death, but it has been probably years since I last seriously wanted to die and to take my own life. I don't know what changed. Maybe it's because I met all these men...Ben, Mark, Michael, all these guys who gave me a fleeting moment of hope and when I had crushes on them, I felt like I could see some sort of future. I could see marriage, and travel and a family, and a home and I wanted to perhaps be with them and spend life with them. 

Now, for some inexplicable reason, all that has disappeared. Just gone. I don't want any of that anymore. I'm back to where I've started. I don't want those flights of fancy anymore. I don't particularly care if I'm never kissed, never touched, never fucked, never loved. I just want to die, be burned and forgotten. Resources shouldn't really be wasted on me. I've wasted enough as it is and I'm trying my best to balance it out a bit before I bite the dust. 

Mark, Mark, part of me still wants him, but I know he's taken. Last night I had a dream where he was talking to me and told me he was gay. Well, I don't suppose it makes a difference, I can't have him either way. Still, when I'm with him, part of me just hopes and hopes that he will put his arm around me. 

Been thinking that I should just bite the bullet and get my next tattoo. If you look at the two pictures above, I want an anchor on my left thigh, sort of where those girls have tattoos, although not at all like the anchor tattoo she has. It might help to cover the ugly cut mark I have on my thigh. I want something more simple for my other thigh, maybe a barcode or something. 

I've been subconsciously holding back on getting a tattoo. I know not all guys like them and I've been not getting them in case I fall in love with a guy who doesn't like them. But fuck that. I'm not falling in love. I'm getting the tattoos because I want them, not to impress some guy. So fuck it. When I go on night shifts, I'm getting this done. 

I'm still debating what I want to get done on my back. When I touch my spine, I can feel the bones much more easily...I don't know, I will think on that one a bit longer. 

tattoo thinspo and the dream life

"You're living in the past, it's a new generation!"

I'm absolutely inspired to get a new tattoo so I thought I would post some tattoo thinspo. I absolutely adore tattoo thinspo, there is nothing more beautiful than a boney, tattoo covered girl. I'm currently thinking of a design that I want on myself, and I will probably get it done in the next few weeks, if it looks okay, I might post a picture of it on here. 

The first one of the feather is like what I'm going to get on my back, to the left, and the top of the feather will be breaking up into little birds that fly away and curve round my flank. It's hard to explain, but I will definitely get an artist to draw it up first. I'm so excited. I feel like I've made some sort of breakthrough. Birds are always something that I wanted tattooed on me, and I love feathers but didn't want to get so many separate little ones. In a fit of peak, I realised I could just get them both in one tattoo. I can be so dumb sometimes. 

At times like these, I wish I could quit my job and just work in the fashion industry. I'd love to be an editor or you know, a fashion blogger that gets invited to be front row at all the couture shows. Be paid good money to give my opinion, and then I could wear what I wanted, I wouldn't feel so bad for having such an effusive wardrobe and I could tattoo the shit out of myself. Or, I could be a designer, make my own clothes and shoes and bags. Now, THAT'S the dream. 

I'm dying to get a tattoo on my forearm, but in my profession, it can be seen as quite offensive and could stop me getting good jobs in the future. Sometimes I hate having to look professional. That's why I bend the rules slightly when it comes to how I dress. I'm not demure, I'm not practical. I wear tight skirts, low tops, high waisted pants. I'm a walking fashion show. Or a limping fashion show, as is sometimes the case by the end of the day. Why shouldn't I be allowed to dress well. As long as I can do the job and my boobs and ass aren't falling out, it shouldn't be a problem. 

The studded boots, leggings, rock tees are more of a problem. I'd love to look like a rock chick. I hate how people just assume I'm one of those typical, sweet, giggling, passive Asian cuties. And I get guys asking me out because of that assumption. They want a cutie on their arm, to kiss and cuddle with and take out to dinner and be cute and sweet and go to karaoke and sing K-pop and J-pop and whatever other crap exists out there.

But when they meet me, I want to go to rock concerts, I want to listen to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, ACDC, Bon Jovi, Depeche Mode, Black Sabbath, Def Leppard, The Violent Femmes and Guns'n'Roses. I want whiskey and port and I want to drive fast, to anywhere. I don't want to kiss or cuddle, I don't want to hold their hand. I would happily skip all that for a good fuck, but for some reason, the guys don't go for that. They find me pierced and tatted up and get put off. Whatever. Maybe I am a bit bipolar. 

Or maybe they find me fat and ugly and that's what puts them off fucking me. 

shattered and defeated and making decisions

"So make all your last demands for I will forsake you and I'll meet your eyes for the very first time, for the very last." 

NB: I apologise if I've not been commenting on your blogs of late. Blogger is doing that weird thing again where it doesn't tell me when the blogs I follow update. I comment on the posts that I see pop up!

I've worked too long, too many long days, too many long hours. I've been afraid, too many moments of insecurity, of panic, of feeling shattered and defeated. Too many thoughts run through my head, my patients, my boss, my future, my body. Yes, I've lost weight, but only about 4lbs, and only the weight that I had put on when I was eating like some freak. So now I am back to my baseline 122lbs. I haven't moved forwards at all and I hate it.

The flurry of clothes that I had bought for myself, all a few sizes too small, hoping I'd fit into them by now still sit on hangers, taunting me and reminding me that I have failed in another aspect of my life. I must try harder. I must eat less. I must just buckled down and do what I need to do. From deep down inside me an old desire is rising, the desire to cut. I swore so many times that I would never go back there. I swore that no matter what, I would handle it and I would not take myself back there. But let's face it, it's an easy way out and right now, that's all I'm looking for. 

A gush of blood and I can sleep. A gush of blood and I can focus and study. A gush of blood and I am no longer hungry. All I need is to bleed out my anger and frustration and fears and anxiety and insecurity and hatred. Bleed it all out, then I can be just me. Calm. 

But I swore I wouldn't go back there. But I swore. 

It's not the only aspect of me that is being questioned. Every aspect of me is being questioned. I don't know what I want to do anymore. So much for wanting to do ophthalmology. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I can't do it. The intake is too low, 2 per year. With the amount of stress that I feel just working an ordinary job, I can't imagine what it would be to live for 5-7 years desperately trying to get onto a training scheme. And then I think of Alex. Perfect Alex. Thin, beautiful, talented, not a bad molecule in her body. She speaks fluent French and is half Japanese and is femininity personified. She's a warm spring morning in Paris with a black coffee and croissant. I try so hard to be like her, but I just can't. 

I'm not that person. I'm fat and bitchy. I'm spontaneous shopping and designer labels and consumerism with all the letters capitalised and italicised. I'm wobbly cellulite and a lazy slob and a liar and an absolute cow with a bad attitude. I'm full of badness and rock and roll and whiskey and port. I'm full Chinese and I only speak English. I'm a cold, wet morning in the Scottish highlands with black pudding and a fried egg. 

How can I pretend anymore. I can't do it anymore. I think of the professor, and how much I adore him and how much I've let him down. I can't possibly face him again. I can't do it. I can't spend the next decade or more of my life with someone who hates me as he must hate me. I can't be with someone who knows all my problems and wants to solve them. I can't spend my doing something that constantly reminds me of how inadequate and unworthy I am, no matter how much I love it. 

I will do general surgery and be worked to the bone. And be yelled at by my bosses and sleep 2 hours a night in my car and slice my own body to pieces and feel like I'm finally in my place. 

Time to do what I must. Book another tattoo, cut as deep as I want to, eat nothing at all and buy the biggest bottle of port and whiskey I can get my hands on. Fuck what other people think. Fuck "taking care of myself". Fuck it all. I don't care if I'm self destructive, maybe that's how I've always been. But it's the only way I know how to get by and right now, all I want to do is get by, one day at a time. 

If that means being hungry but thin, drunk but calm, put together but cut up then so be it. 

thinspiration: tattoo

Quite a few of you have said that you like tattooed thinspo. I've been thinking of posting a purely thinspo post for a while now, so here are some beautiful tattooed girls to keep us all movtivated!