Thursday, June 30, 2005

Burnt Pizza


My dad is making food. Homemade pizza. With the beef he cooked last week and onions and sweetcorn and pineapple pieces. The tomato base is Doritos salsa dip and he's using a weird mixture of Weight watchers cream cheese and Mature cheddar, toppings on the thickest dough ever. It is baking in the oven. The smell is having a banquet up my nostrils. Food, glorious food.



I feel bad for wanting to eat. I feel bad for hating eating. I feel sick over the fact I have to eat eventually. I've been eating, but restricting but I haven't exercised enough. I feel disappointed that my eating disorder isn't life-threatening. I know thats stupid and naive. There's millions of girls out there, starving to an early grave. They might wish they were me. I wouldn't. I want to be them. At least I wouldn't have to bother trying to find reasons for anything anymore. I made a stupid appointment with the college counsellor for next Thurs, just to update her from Feb since I left.

Dad is cutting up the pizza. It's a bit burnt, but he likes things a bit burnt. He's very proud of himself. "Isn't it wicked!" he says. Turns out he didn't follow my advice of baking the dough blind before cooking the pizza. It's back in the oven. I'm not hungry. I'm not hungry. Really. I wouldn't mind some whisky though - straight. But I know that almost everytime I get drunk, its usually on my own and I always harm myself, and worse than usual since I just don't care in my drunkeness. So I'm trying very hard to cut back. I don't want make things worse with myself. The pizza is being left in the oven now, to settle for ten minutes. Maybe when we check on it, time will have surpassed itself and it will covered in green mould, then I won't have to eat anything.

I don't know what my Dad knows, but he's been on my case to eat more. Usually its to eat less and less, less and less. I think he'd love me more if I was thin. One time he said to me when I was 12 that I would be a lot prettier if I was thinner. So many crappy things have been said to me because of my weight, but that remark has stayed with and won't let go.

Thankfully, I don't have to eat. The pizza is so burnt that you can't cut with your knife and fork and. Otherwise it wasn't too bad, and hey if we were stuck for entertainment it would have made a good substitute drum. I managed to eat cornflakes instead. Yay me.

2 comments:

Disgruntledgoat said...

Hello.

I'm very mellow and bored (or is that boring) this evening.

I thought I'd comment here anyway.

CarpeDM said...

It amazes me how people obsess about how they look and about comments that have been said. I should know, I'm one of those people. Or I was.

I've never seen a picture of you but I'm sure you look fine. I'm sure you're too hard on yourself. You've seen my picture, I take absolutely no care with how I look and I don't really care. And it shows. But I'm still happy. And yes, that's because of the happy pills but still...

Plus, now that I'm feeling better about myself, I've been exercising and wearing ankle weights and a pedometer. I'm not going fitness crazy but it's a start, right?

The girl who sits next to me is absolutely gorgeous. And she is constantly telling me how she's fat. And she has a scar in the middle of her chest because she had a slight blemish and absolutely had to have it removed even though no one could see it and it got infected and now she deals with that scar on a daily basis. Something to be learned from that, right?

Okay, lecture done. Sorry. Can't help it.