I suppose the only good thing to come of being an emotional wreck is having no appetite. I hardly eat anymore, and if I do, it's going to be purged. I live off of coffee and cigarettes, a likely combination. It's a pathetic thing to think that I'll receive your adoration, your affection, if I lose those extra ten pounds. Then I will be a fragile, little thing, something that needs care and attention. Is this a cry for help? Maybe. But for now, I'll just enjoy wearing my skinny jeans, chain smoking.
I can hardly breathe anymore.
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