Frustrated.

I'm fasting again as of Tuesday, because I ate so fucking much this weekend.
I guess I'll just call it preparation for a five day fast.

So lets do some math:
After two days of fasting, my body turns to itself (my heaps of fat) for sustainance. After that, the average person loses about a pound a day. If I fast from Tuesday morning to Saturday night, five days, that should be a about three pounds. Ninety-one pounds. Thats sounds so beautiful. Ninety-one. Ninety-one. Ninety-one.

I'm not even going to add up this weekend's calories; I'll end up having a major freak-out/purge-fest. So to keep myself occupied from my horrid self indulgence, I curled my hair. And I really like it curly.

I'm so so so full. I want to cry. I would, if I wasn't about to go pose for my friend some more.

I don't know why I get used as a model; I really don't think I'm pretty, I'm short as anything, and I'm horribly awkward in front of the camera. I never know what to do. I just kind of look at it with a lost and slightly disgruntled expression, and he loves it.

Anyways. Off to the studio.
I'll leave you with a picture of my curly hair.

Love you, Margie.
Update:
self-esteem=zero. Zero point fucking zero zero zero. Actually, more like negative fifteen thousand, nine hundred forty eight.
So, tonight I get up on the scale. The needle rockets up. I slide the bottom weight to fifty, the top to forty five. Nothing. Ninety five is too light. I slide it up to forty six, nothing. Seven. Eight. Nine. One hundred. The needle moves. It centres.
My heart is litterally about to fall out of my ass. I get pale.
"NO! That's not right. It's not right. No. No. No."
It gets better. I start to cry. No, not by myself, in the comfort of my own bathroom. I start to cry in the middle of a crowded hall, filled with my piers and classmates. My best friend, Er, sat with his arm around me, trying his best to convince me that that particular scale is off by five pounds, and that the scale in the fitness centre is right. I still couldn't believe him. Just seeing that number on the scale, wrong or not, got to me. Iwanted to die. I really did. He went into the whole, "Margie, you are so thin. You really are. And even if you weren't, it wouldn't matter. You worry all of us, and I know you know that. And besides, you haven't even gained any weight! I saw last time you weighed yourself! That scale is off, and don't say it's not. The nurse said so herself." By now, I had several more people gathered around me, rubbing my arms, and putting their hands on my knees, offering me those cliche words of "comfort," the words that make me want to hit somebody: "Oh, Margaret, you're so skinny. You're so pretty." I hate them.
I hate everyone.
I hate me.