Under the Bed

I didn't want to think about England today, so I took the opportunity to clean under the bed, which I've been avoiding doing since summer. All the ugly things I don't want to think about go under the bed, so I certainly wasn't going to do it until I had something worse to avoid. It was interesting. Some of it was funny, like the horrible stuff I did during my first figure drawing sessions when looking at a penis was still awkward, or all the stuff I hoarded during nine years of being obsessed with Ewan McGregor (holy shit, I'm glad that's over with) or the photos I took when I visited Paris (I kept those).

Some of it was not so funny. There were the letters from the toxic person I finally got rid of three years ago. There were the diet pills I used to abuse. There was the letter from USC telling me I wasn't good enough for them, but they'd be glad to take me and my money during the second semester when some of the people they really wanted had left.

I'm glad I'm not that person anymore. I've learned that being so preoccupied with the size of my ass is a colossal waste of my time, so I go running and I don't binge, but if I stay a size 12-14, I'm really not interested in berating myself or abusing pills or keeping creepy little notebooks with creepy little calorie counts anymore. There are more interesting things to do. And when USC calls looking for handouts, I take great pleasure in telling them to go fuck themselves sideways with a rusty chainsaw.