holy crap.
i don't know why i'm surprised that places like this exist, but i must say, i'm shocked.
http://community.livejournal.com/proanorexia
over the years, probably from age 14-20, i had sporadic anorexia fantasies. after a bad day at school, or getting turned down by a boy i liked--whatever--i'd lay in bed at night, blinking through my first bouts with insomnia, and promise myself, "tomorrow i will stop eating. i'll become anorexic and lose all this weight and that'll show them!" i know it sounds horrid, but welcome to the mind of a teenager that ranked on the popularity scale somewhere between the mathletes and that boy with the headgear who farted really loud in gym class.
of course it never happened. i possess a personality cocktail of food-loving/lack-of-willpower that would never have enabled an anorexic lifestyle. alcoholic, maybe. but that's another story.
however, let me say this. thank god the internet didn't exist when i was young, dumb and impressionable. well, i'm still dumb and impressionable, but fortunately age has given me a smidge of wisdom. because years ago, if i had access to these "pro ana" sites, i might have fallen prey to wisdom like this:
-don´t just give up every night and say "i´ll start tomorrow". it never works..
-instead start around 5 or 6 pm. then you will get hungry at night and you don´t feel it when you sleep.
-don´t wake up too early and stay busy so that u wont have time to eat breakfast. curl your hair for example.
-it´s easy to be at school because there you can´t binge. just say that you ate so much breakfast that you are still full!
-don´t go home straight from school. hang out with your friends somewhere where you can´t eat.
-then when you go home and your parents want you to eat say that you had dinner with your friend."
OR, this:
Im wanting to start the juice fast, but how long should i do it for so no one will notice i was thinking about 3 weeks. My GW is 70lbs and im currently 97 (massive i know). Do you think this will work ? Plus does anyone know what will work if you get hungry on the juice fast as i really want it to work . I really need it to work.
OR, this:
only 8 more hours till I can go to bed and finally rest
Im fasting, and feeling sooo good!
but Im just so exhausted. I want to sleep but ive got loads of hw!
I hate school.
these are high school girls, it's clear from their posts. some of them have photos of themselves, or of nicole richie, or the desperate housewives. i don't have anything else to say, except... this is really goddamn heartbreaking.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
erotic-a
some people who know me might say that i am about as qualified to write erotica as i am to record a song with nine inch nails, or orchestrate the launch of a space shuttle from NASA's headquarters.
i disagree.
if my MFA has given me nothing else, it has enhanced my ability to turn a phrase. and though my single life ultimately bowed down at the altar of marriage, it did leave me with a few choice memories which, all along, i knew would one day find their way into fiction. moments in time, unexpected lovers, lines of dialogue that were so good the first time around, they deserved an encore.
some of them made their way into a 5000-word erotic short story i penned last week. a friend issued the challenge and i figured, hell, it was worth a shot. amazingly, the words flowed like midori at a bachelorette party. within a few short hours i had put the finishing touches on the ravishing tale of two strangers who screwed their way around south africa. i dipped my toe into the language of taboo and emerged energized and, honestly, impressed with my ability to craft a sexy and engaging story. it had moments--a sentence here and there--that were lyrical and surprising. mainly though, it was 17 double-spaced pages of earth-shattering fucking. penthouse forum for the gen-x backpacker set.
now, i'm moving onward and upward in the world of "romantic fiction," trading graphic sexual language for the flirtations and euphemisms of the harlequin romance tradition. i've outlined a 60,000-word novel and hope to deliver it by the end of the summer. i find myself thinking of my characters all the time, excited to watch their lives unfold. this kind of writing is like candy, like reading jane austen or david sedaris. it's delightful.
i have had one mildly troubling realization. i do believe i can get past the stigma of romance writing by telling myself it's an almost meta act of hipster subterfuge. however, if i do pursue this as a money making venture--dare i say a career--i will be feeding a machine that delivers to women of all ages false expectations of love and romance. even in my short story, my characters engaged in sex with a frequency and...creativity...that few mortals could attain. but should it ever see the light of day, i can imagine a reader thinking, "hey, my boyfriend/husband/lover has never done THAT." and then denigrating into sad feelings of inadequacy or unattractiveness. little will she know that the woman behind the pen name is a size-16 nebraskan who rarely shaves her legs and has never approximated in her own life some of the acts she perpetrates upon her characters. it's fiction, baby. but it's also fantasy, it's what we want on some level, right? or these books wouldn't sell.
so that's my plan. torrid grocery store romance writing with an MFA flair. stay tuned.
i disagree.
if my MFA has given me nothing else, it has enhanced my ability to turn a phrase. and though my single life ultimately bowed down at the altar of marriage, it did leave me with a few choice memories which, all along, i knew would one day find their way into fiction. moments in time, unexpected lovers, lines of dialogue that were so good the first time around, they deserved an encore.
some of them made their way into a 5000-word erotic short story i penned last week. a friend issued the challenge and i figured, hell, it was worth a shot. amazingly, the words flowed like midori at a bachelorette party. within a few short hours i had put the finishing touches on the ravishing tale of two strangers who screwed their way around south africa. i dipped my toe into the language of taboo and emerged energized and, honestly, impressed with my ability to craft a sexy and engaging story. it had moments--a sentence here and there--that were lyrical and surprising. mainly though, it was 17 double-spaced pages of earth-shattering fucking. penthouse forum for the gen-x backpacker set.
now, i'm moving onward and upward in the world of "romantic fiction," trading graphic sexual language for the flirtations and euphemisms of the harlequin romance tradition. i've outlined a 60,000-word novel and hope to deliver it by the end of the summer. i find myself thinking of my characters all the time, excited to watch their lives unfold. this kind of writing is like candy, like reading jane austen or david sedaris. it's delightful.
i have had one mildly troubling realization. i do believe i can get past the stigma of romance writing by telling myself it's an almost meta act of hipster subterfuge. however, if i do pursue this as a money making venture--dare i say a career--i will be feeding a machine that delivers to women of all ages false expectations of love and romance. even in my short story, my characters engaged in sex with a frequency and...creativity...that few mortals could attain. but should it ever see the light of day, i can imagine a reader thinking, "hey, my boyfriend/husband/lover has never done THAT." and then denigrating into sad feelings of inadequacy or unattractiveness. little will she know that the woman behind the pen name is a size-16 nebraskan who rarely shaves her legs and has never approximated in her own life some of the acts she perpetrates upon her characters. it's fiction, baby. but it's also fantasy, it's what we want on some level, right? or these books wouldn't sell.
so that's my plan. torrid grocery store romance writing with an MFA flair. stay tuned.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
there was a night when i drank too much at the black cat and ordered fried scallops--scallops!--from yum's market at 2am
visiting DC, my home from ages 22 - 28 1/2, is sort of like visiting an ex-boyfriend, except without the bad memories of drunk sex and crappy break-up mix CDs. it is an experience that forces, like it or not, lots of "what if" thoughts, a revisiting of decisions past. mainly, my decision to leave.
what if i had taken that awesome job at gallaudet university? what if ocean conservancy had offered me more money? what if someone had sat me down and said, "don't do it!" what if i still lived a 30-minute walk from naomi and nijole and dupont and pharmacy bar? what if i had realized before reserving the u-haul that my new job would give me panic attacks? that homeownership is expensive and requires cleaning of gutters 3x/year. what if i had not followed my homing instinct, or had let myself realize, in one moment of clarity, that DC had become home, and nebraska was my bedrock, the place of my childhood, but no longer... not a home, exactly.
if i stayed: i would not have left behind some of the most wonderful friends i've ever known. i would be living downtown still, with a pool on my roof deck. i would be able to participate in the post hunt, and the cherry blossom festival, and see ozomatli at the state theater and obama on the hill. i might be farther along professionally, and paid more for my work. i would have better style, and from all the walking, a smaller frame to flaunt it on. i would go out most nights, to bars and clubs and concerts and book signings. i would relish an occasional evening at home alone. i would sit next to politicians on the metro. i would live among a democratic majority. i would hear many languages spoken on the sidewalks of my neighborhood. i would see gay men freely expressing affection in public. i would ride my bike through rock creek park on sundays, admiring azaleas taller than the elephants at the national zoo.
if i stayed: i would not have met john. i would not have adopted lucy, solomon, rufus or benny. i would not see my family regularly. i would not have had time, after quitting my first job, to spend time with my grandfather in the months leading up to his death. i would not have been here to offer my own tributary to the tidal wave of support sarah received during her leukemia battle. i would not have gotten to know the craft-making, beer-drinking nebraska peeps as anything more than friends i visited twice a year. i would not have walks around the lake with my mom, or mindless movies with my dad on weekends. i would not have spent my 30th birthday in a cabin with girls and gays, ambrosia salad and martha stewart magazines and one excellent lap dog. i would not have met john.
life, i am learning (SLOWLY) is not about black and white choices. it is easy to summon melancholy for either of these paths, and likewise joy. my moods vary like the weather in this flat fucking state... they skew whimsical or bitter, depending on how my work day unfurled, how much wine i've had to drink, if john walked the dog or slept on the couch, if my friends amuse or annoy me, if i amuse or annoy my friends, who has called me and who hasn't called, what's on TV, what's in the paper, what i'm dreaming about at night, if i'm sleeping or insomniazing, if i'm medicated or organic, what's for dinner and what's on the stereo.
it's complicated.
what if i had taken that awesome job at gallaudet university? what if ocean conservancy had offered me more money? what if someone had sat me down and said, "don't do it!" what if i still lived a 30-minute walk from naomi and nijole and dupont and pharmacy bar? what if i had realized before reserving the u-haul that my new job would give me panic attacks? that homeownership is expensive and requires cleaning of gutters 3x/year. what if i had not followed my homing instinct, or had let myself realize, in one moment of clarity, that DC had become home, and nebraska was my bedrock, the place of my childhood, but no longer... not a home, exactly.
if i stayed: i would not have left behind some of the most wonderful friends i've ever known. i would be living downtown still, with a pool on my roof deck. i would be able to participate in the post hunt, and the cherry blossom festival, and see ozomatli at the state theater and obama on the hill. i might be farther along professionally, and paid more for my work. i would have better style, and from all the walking, a smaller frame to flaunt it on. i would go out most nights, to bars and clubs and concerts and book signings. i would relish an occasional evening at home alone. i would sit next to politicians on the metro. i would live among a democratic majority. i would hear many languages spoken on the sidewalks of my neighborhood. i would see gay men freely expressing affection in public. i would ride my bike through rock creek park on sundays, admiring azaleas taller than the elephants at the national zoo.
if i stayed: i would not have met john. i would not have adopted lucy, solomon, rufus or benny. i would not see my family regularly. i would not have had time, after quitting my first job, to spend time with my grandfather in the months leading up to his death. i would not have been here to offer my own tributary to the tidal wave of support sarah received during her leukemia battle. i would not have gotten to know the craft-making, beer-drinking nebraska peeps as anything more than friends i visited twice a year. i would not have walks around the lake with my mom, or mindless movies with my dad on weekends. i would not have spent my 30th birthday in a cabin with girls and gays, ambrosia salad and martha stewart magazines and one excellent lap dog. i would not have met john.
life, i am learning (SLOWLY) is not about black and white choices. it is easy to summon melancholy for either of these paths, and likewise joy. my moods vary like the weather in this flat fucking state... they skew whimsical or bitter, depending on how my work day unfurled, how much wine i've had to drink, if john walked the dog or slept on the couch, if my friends amuse or annoy me, if i amuse or annoy my friends, who has called me and who hasn't called, what's on TV, what's in the paper, what i'm dreaming about at night, if i'm sleeping or insomniazing, if i'm medicated or organic, what's for dinner and what's on the stereo.
it's complicated.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)