My Earlobes Still Feel Fat

I’ve been so unhappy with my body recently. I can’t really figure it out. I’m eating fairly well, I haven’t gained any weight, my clothes still fit me…but for some reason every time I look in the mirror I look thick. And I don’t mean sexy black girl thick. I mean linebacker thick. Or just fat girl thick. And it’s not even just that I feel fat. Today I forwent my usual padded push-up bra for my favorite lace underwire, which, although it doesn’t make my breasts look particularly large, makes them feel huge and fantastic. But today they just looked tiny, and flat, and then the rest of my torso as a result looked flabby and large. I’m still wearing the bra, but I feel awful. And it’s not just my upper body. I mean, my hips and thighs have always been the biggest part of me, but usually I think they’re curvaceous and lately I think they’re just gargantuan. Somehow the subtle flow of their form, which used to be feminine and sexy, is now just heavy and cumbersome. There's real

I spent all morning cruising the internet for publishing jobs, newspaper opportunities, and magazine internships. I was so excited to really sink my teeth into writing, and specifically I decided I was going to apply (when I’m back in the US) for any and all openings at Cosmo, Marie Claire, Glamour, what have you. But just now I was reading Marie Claire, and all I could think was how I couldn’t afford the beautiful clothes in the pages, and how sickening it is that one article of clothing can even cost that much in the first place. And of course, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about how I’d never fit into them anyway. Worse, when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it, when I thought I was opening up about how sick my mind is, how I used to (and sometimes still do) wish I could be anorexic instead of fat, I realized he wasn’t listening. And he doesn’t see how it’s hurtful, because he doesn’t understand that I was talking about something so important. Because he wasn’t list

Okay, so this blog is supposed to be about fat and such, but since I'm covered under the term "Body Issues," I want to talk about freak hairs. Now, my hair (from my head), is always falling out and tickling the bare skin on my chest/shoulders. I don't mean this in a stress-clump way, but rather a single straggler way. I'm fairly certain that I am not alone here. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only girl who's ever found a longer-than-it-should-be hair growing from somewhere other than her head, which is what just happened to me. I felt what I thought was a straggler on my collarbone, but when I picked it off I found it was attached . I was horrified. Of course, when I pulled it, I found out it was so blond it was almost white, and I'm sure nobody else could have noticed it. But still. Ew. So what's the deal with the freak hairs? Other girls in my life have found them too, some of them on their faces, and my lovely brother was ki

Just a quickie: As a rule, I try not to blame society for all my self-loathing and such, because 'society' is such an undefinable, intangible entity, and plus I don't want to be a cliche. But the fact that I've spent the past 5 years HATING Ugg boots and the last 5 weeks cruising for them online tells me that something is leaking into my brain through the cracks between lobes and INFILTRATING. It's sick. For the record, I refuse to spend $300 on a pair of heinous sheepskin sacks. So I bought the £15 knockoffs.

It’s weird. My scars haven’t even faded yet, except in miraculously transparent patches, and I’m already forgetting they exist. Now, when I raise my arms to tie up my hair (something I would never have done in public just a year ago) and the man at the next table looks at me a little too long, I feel an urge to make sure I’ve shaved my armpits. It’s only when I not-so-slyly slide my fingers into my shirt that I feel the abnormally smooth stripe of skin and realize what the man was staring at. And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, a