Anxiety in its Most Vicious Form. October 28, ’02.

Dear Journal,

OMG, Mike T. SHIT HIS PANTS today!  I guess on the bus he was trying to fart + um he tried a little too hard.  Oh gosh, everyone was talking about it.  Well there’s really nothing else to say about that since its got me a bit speachless, but w/e I still love him (as a best friend (not bf)).

Reading was so fun.  Again, as always, especially since we got the new seats.  At the LL (little league) awards night thing Sam showed me the pictures of homecoming.  Oh my Lord, her date Kori is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen!  But ya know I still think craig’s a bombshell too.  lol.

I don’t know what to think w/ him.  He kinda flirts w/ me, but its not like touchy feely or anything (that’s not him anyway), but I can’t tell if he likes me like a gf or just a friend.  Prob just a friend, I dunno many guys who go out w/ people over 125.  Ugh, why are humans so superficial???


Oh, Little Allison.  If only you could have known those ultrasuperficial humans were made of your own insecurity.  Mostly.  Eighth grade was such a shitshow of self-loathing and liberation.  At one end you’ve got this “no one will ever love me because I’m ten pounds over the suggested healthy weight for girls my height” mindset, and on the other I’m establishing myself as a badass bitch who isn’t about to take shit from anyone.  The irony in all this is, despite my poor-me boo-hoos, I was given the gift of a pallet expander just a few months following this post.  This beautiful bridge of metal stayed just shy of the roof of my mouth for a good three or four months.  During that time, I couldn’t swallow cream of wheat without feeling like I was choking.  I experienced a miracle: I began to hate eating.

So not even six months after I made the assumption that not many guys go out with girls clocking in over 125 pounds, I lost almost twenty pounds and got myself down to a smooth 130.  Still too fucking fat in my mind I guess!  These days, now that I know it’s not all about the LBs, I’ve almost completely fallen off the calorie-counting, OMGINEEDLYPO/8HOURSATTHEGYM/ANOREXIANOW train and focused on the things I really care about, like accentuating a gorgeous face, wearing beautifully flattering clothes at all times, and exuding sexuality like the skinniest of bitches wishes she could.  Although this is a thousand times improvement from my eighth grade ways, I do need to take a note from the archives and get back to caring more about the bod.

College did not do wonders for my cross-country curves.  Worse than college, the past year holds the worst weight swing I’ve had since freshman year in college.  Working door-to-door sales got me moving and grooving every day whether I liked it or not, and when I moved to Pittsburgh to sell FiOS I was hustling the hilliest neighborhoods of my life, 6 days a week, 6 hours a day.  Talk about a workout.  Oh yeah, not to mention the one-sandwich-a-day, amphetamines, and fear-for-my-life anxiety diet I was on for my five-week stay.  That shit got me looking HOT.  I literally had a six pack; I never did situps.

If I could have maintained that bod I would have.  Wait, would I have?  It was actually kind of scary to get there.  In the last two days of Pittsburgh life, I was asked out at a stoplight, asked out at the coffee shop I used to write (twice), and offered a place to live for free if I stayed.  WTF?  The one night we actually went out in the city I got too shitfaced to realize my potential and puked in a Sheetz parking lot.  So there it is.  I have an awful, awful condition that could only be realized by major weight fluctuations: it’s called Seriously Hot Anxiety.

Seriously Hot Anxiety is one of the worst conditions you can imagine.  You know your potential because you’ve been there.  Other people know it.  Pretty face don’t lie.  You might consciously want that power back, but somewhere in the corner of your mind you are scared shitless to present yourself as a really, really, really hot individual.  Maybe it’s because I value my intellect so much.  If I lost 30-40 pounds and got super hot–like even hotter than I looked in Pittsburgh (smokin’)–I’d get a lot of attention.  All the time.  I like attention, but not that way.  I cringe when even my mom tells me I look good before I leave the house.  I guess we’ll see how things go here, but for now I’ve got other things to worry about, like making money and doing great work for my startup friends.  The hotness may come creeping back, and by the time it’s in full swing I’ll know how to handle my shit (I hope).  If not, you’re all in for some great reading this summer brought to you by my favorite alter ego: Bitter Ali.


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