I'm at home alone, roommate Matty is working until midnight and I'm inclined to wait up for him so I can let him in the back door since neither he nor I have had the brains to get a second key cut for him yet.

It's always tougher, late at night. It's when I feel bored and I want to eat, though I'm not really hungry. I have wished my whole life that I was one of those people that couldn't eat when I was stressed or depressed or anything powerful like that. In love, whatever. But I'm not, and I never have been. I am the one who eats when I feel strong emotions, be they happy or sad.

I don't really have much interesting to say at the moment. I just wish that I could wake up the person that I was inside before I met jackrabbit and Cameron, and outside, the person that I was last august. I was doing so well, what happened?

It's amazing, and I know that other people have experienced this because so many times you hear about people who woke up one day and realized that something about them had changed so drastically that it is painfully obvious that they've been hiding for the last few months.

Because no one gains 30 pounds overnight. But it happens. One day, they wake up and they're 300 pounds. I can't let that be me but I don't know how to avoid it. I'm at 164. I've gained now, 16 pounds. I feel sick and I want to rip parts of my flesh off my body, I hate them so much. They aren't me. They aren't a part of me. They feel like parasites.

I'm covered in parasites.

I hate it. I hate that I can run for an hour. I hate that I can run 10k, or pedal super fast on my bicycle. I hate that I am so fit, yet I cannot seem to drop a single fucking pound without great pain and effort.

The frustration is immesurable. I can't find the words to explain the fucking frustration. I want to shake myself and shake everyone else, and shake until my brain rattles and I drop dead.

This sucks. I'm going to watch Buffy.