I miss a boy real, real bad

I hate it when I lose this part of my independence. I can go for months and months just happy being me and friends and family fall in and out of my life and sometimes I wish they were here but I never miss them miss them you know? And now I’m yearning yearning yearning and getting a little bit crazy and obsessed over the distance and it’s all like “what happened to smart independent scientist-philosopher feminist lady?” because I just want verbal reassurance and a big freaking hug

If you pay attention to the eyes of a sadistic lover, you will often notice moments of switch; those adoring clouds are released from the eyes, the smile takes on a different quality, affection melts away and is replaced by something altogether more sinister. Evil, perhaps. It’s the kind of facial expression you might see on a cartoon portrait of a devil, the kind of smile you think of Machiavelli as wearing on his crueller days. A few seconds and it’s gone, the clouds are back and the softness, and you’re left wondering what it is you saw and whether or not you liked it.

Sometimes I wish I were the kind of person who craved tender sex but paradoxically enough it’s never made me feel safe. I have tried to love men who had no desire to hurt me physically but I’ve always ended up being disgusted by them, feeling them as weak, unable to hold them with love or even truly respect. Oddly enough it’s only my three sadistic lovers who I’ve ever felt have loved me, or at least felt a genuine affection; everybody else has loved only the idea of me, as some kind of concept abstracted away from my basest desire and motivations. You think of the kinds of acts that have fostered this kind of actual love, or if not love the beginnings of it - clawing, biting, hair pulling, choking, restraint, hits to the body and the face – and the act to the outside observer seems impossible to unite with the idea of actual affection. How can you love the thing you are breaking? How can you respect the thing you are trying to dominate and control? How can you attach the label of “romance” to something so inherently base? But from the inside it feels right and wonderful. Within the arms of the sadist you feel correct and desired and safe.

Sadomasochistic love is at its core about the fulfilment of desires that take place at the darker roots of the psyche, things that you show to very few people and may have trouble integrating with an otherwise powerful conception of self. It’s the stroke of the gentle hand that turns into a claw halfway down your back. It’s the mouth that softly kisses your skin before he parts his lips and bites it, so that you’re left with teeth marks in your skin that don’t fade away for a week. It’s an understanding that passes between two minds; you’re giving each other exactly what you want, not just in your physical body but from the deepest corners of your soul. And there is affection, and, yes, real and genuine love; but every now and again, you notice the switch where all of that melts away and all you are left with is monster, and this monster’s claws are in your skin, and this monster wants you to break, and you experience a moment of genuine fear for yourself and what you’re capable of loving because you pull your him closer and not for a second do you ever think of pushing your monster away.

My reward for getting down beneath 11 stone (154 pounds) was a pair of black milk leggings and a galaxy dress, which I’ve been desiring for fucking months but always felt too fat to get in to (and probably still am but fuck it)

Fed-Ex tracking says it’s on the vehicle for delivery

Come on

Come on

Come onnnnnn

I can’t believe I am materialistic enough to be this excited.

(Also, that’s just over 20 pounds since January. Not the fastest weight loss in the world, but I’ve also gained some muscle and I feel bloody fantastic. Slow and steady wins the jamboree, dontcha know.)

Starting to think that on a psychological level looking at “thinspo”, even images of fit rather than skinny girls, is quite a bad idea. However slim you are there’s alway going to be someone who is smaller, skinnier, fitter, more perfect - why fixate on these girls? It’s just going to undermine your own achievements and make you feel like crap for not doing better more quickly when in reality, every pound counts. Maybe we should be making idols out of better versions of ourselves, rather than holding others up as some kind of eventual ideal. Because when we focus on what we don’t look like we’re inevitably setting ourselves up for failure, at least in the present moment, and that’s not the kind of positive self-serving mentality we need in order to keep ploughing away. Why not let the mirror and the way you feel in your body be the guide?

Then again, I don’t exactly practise what I preach, do I? I’ve decided to write my thesis on the philosophy of weight loss - no one’s really done it before and I’m excited :)