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The fucking thought that someone might read a post i write and misinterpret it and cry about it and i might possibly work with them or maybe i dated them or maybe i shared french fries with them once sends me into such a fucking editing frenzy that my head explodes.   

Getting to know tumblrs and having the popularity of tumblr grow exponentially has been both a terrifically exciting process and has simultaneously sucked all the joy out of having a tumblr.  I have so many fEEEElIINGs (especially when I’m PMSing) I want to express but there are just so many metaphors i can use and so much vagueness i can apply to my prose before it loses all fucking meaning.

I need to take a lesson from Rihanna and just start not giving a fuck again.

Also, I’m gonna have nachos for dinner, cause fuck it….

for most of my life, I have hated how I looked. I was the most beautiful child I’s ever seen, retrospectively — however at the time, I hated my appearance. I was 6 years old and overcome with self-loathing every time I looked in the mirror and saw what to this day is the most beautiful child ever. to the point where it’s got nothing to do with the child being me, because it might as well be another person.

years and years later, I still hated my appearance. I never liked my body. ever. it wasn’t even that I’m short, sure that got to me in elementary, but eventually it wasn’t the main issue, it was just a very obvious one. by the time I was 20, it was just full blown hate. it was hate for a very long time. it was something that would ruin my days, kill my highs and result in me thinking that if only I liked my body, I’d be happy.

I’m not sure what happened. yeah I’ve lost weight but it wasn’t overnight. I’ve been this size for a while now. give or take 5 pounds. last year during tax season, I grew a pant size thanks to the copious and damaging amounts of Reese’s peanut butter hearts and eggs I consumed. bags and bags and bags per week. then shortly after it I guess I wet back to my current normal. i still disliked my body. I still didn’t like how I looked naked.

today, on a day where I can’t tell you when I went to sleep other than after sunrise and waking up not very long ago, with mascara smeared, my hair mysteriously in the exact same condition it was yesterday, and feeling the way I feel about my life (which is a work in progress at best and a shitton of lesser things the rest of the time) — I realized I don’t hate my body anymore. not even sometimes. I would be concerned that I were vain if it weren’t for the last 25 years I’ve spent cringing, convinced I’d never be happy with it. a part of me wants to still be hypercritical of, find what’s wrong with, and dislike my body overall. I’m on the border of feeling guilty about it. but I can see myself naked now, and have a positive reaction without even trying. I like how I look without clothes on.

it’s pretty great.