I have a love-hate relationship with my body. i don't know why. i always figured i would be the last person in the world to feel fat, or to wish i weighed less, or had less of a tummy. it's only recently that this has developed - in the last 3 or 4 months. a big part of this is probably living in a dorm (read: a breeding-ground of eating disorders). the food is starchy and full of carbohydrates, and the girls are thin. combining these two is lethal to the self-esteem of every female within.

i try to rationalize this sort of thing. i go between periods of thinking "i should just be anorexic, that would be easier. my clothes would fit, and i would look hot." and "fuck it. i don't need to be persuaded by peer pressure and the media to feel as if i am not beautiful. i am perfectly fine. i am perfect." this dichotomy is hard on a person. i know that i am not too fat, but i wish that this little fat deposit on my stomach would go away. however, rationalization doesn't always work. i can't reconcile my two armies.

i look at a picture of myself, taken in mid-october, in which my stomach is exposed. and i cry. i really do. i notice that i was wearing the jeans that i tried on yesterday to no avail. the only other pair of pants that i thought i owned that fit. in the picture i am wearing these pants, and they are loose on me. today i can't wear them.

the clincher, however, is the way when i stand profile to the mirror and look at myself, my stomach sticks out farther than do my breasts.

i live in two worlds. the magazines, the pants, the mirror, all tell me one thing, while logic tells me another. i don't know what i can do. but really, wouldn't it be nice to own more than one pair of pants that i can wear without watching my stomach spill over the waistband?

why did i eat 14 girl scout cookies earlier today? do i want to be fat?

why does attempting to write an ihum paper launch me into a body image spiral? I had better work.

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