Tonight my husband told me that a month, a month and a half ago, my butt was “much smaller” than it is now and I am so mortified and triggered. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. He is so confident this was positive and celebratory. He was so sure I would be pleased. I can hardly breathe.

Her accusing me of #ana makes me defensive, but also makes me want to dig my heels in deeper. You think this is ana? I’ll show you ana.

I’m also worried now that I’ll lose her friendship as she recovers if I don’t recover.

Here’s the thing. We live on opposite coasts and haven’t been in the same room since 2018. But we face time daily so I suppose that’s irrelevant. I feel terrible. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I need to stay out of her sight for a while.

In fact, she implied, although she didn’t say it outright, that I/our friendship (?) is or has been triggering her eating disorder. The implication was there, that somehow my behavior or something is triggering hers.

My best friend entered ED treatment this week and shared with me that she believes that I too have an eating disorder. I do not know what to do with this information. Yet.

Had to have oral surgery, which disrupted my eating rituals, which has my entire mental and emotional state in shambles.

I raised two boys to be fine young men and never once had to raise a hand to either of them but even I would have slapped the shit out of them for prank calling a draft pick.

Bad Influence on Netflix is a bunch of parents playing dumb about how they allowed their children to experience trauma so the parents could make money without having real jobs themselves.

I definitely didn’t need to see the contents of Tracy Morgan’s stomach today or ever.

Bernie Sanders announcing that he won’t run again after his current term ends is the biggest “No shit, Sherlock” moment of the week.

Omg I had this shirt in high school! Ordered it by mail from a catalog. It was around $30. I wore it to DEATH with a white turtleneck underneath, with my pleated front acid washed jeans tight rolled at the ankle, with two pairs of different colored socks and white Keds. Now it’s museum shit.

Here lately, this thing keeps happening where I’ll think of someone out of the blue and maybe a day or a week later, I’ll find out that on the day I thought of them, something happened. Their dad died, or they had a heart attack, or they got served divorce papers. It keeps happening.

My parents would do shit like get me an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas, bitch about having to help me make the little cake mixes that came with it, criticize the cakes I made, then refuse to buy more mixes so I could keep using the oven after the few little mixes included in the box were gone.

I suppose another way to look at it is that Jake Paul maybe shouldn’t be quite so proud of defeating a 58 year old man, especially when that man stayed, stood and fought the entire fight. Is it that big an accomplishment after all, buddy?

It truly is ironic how the people who say 'Have the day you deserve!' are often the ones who would end up curled in a corner crying if they actually got the day they deserve.

My dad used to let me stay up late to watch Mike Tyson destroy some mfers in 90 seconds. I’m 50 years old now, but the excitement is still the same. Mike Tyson is older too, but there’s no accounting for crazy.

Waking up with a headache has got to be one of my most bullshit moves.