I am far too fascinated by the fact that I am losing weight.
It wasn't deliberate at all. Several factors led to this result:
1: I haven't been drinking so much. Or I haven't at all for a while. Don't know how long, but I've completely lost the desire to (outside of the taste factor, which is occasionally tempting, but negated by the fact that I have no desire to get drunk). The amount of calories I'm not consuming through not drinking really can't be underestimated.
2: I keep forgetting to eat. Food itself has largely lost its importance. I'm not using it as an emotional crutch anymore. I don't need to at the moment. And because I never ate because I was hungry to begin with, this is largely making me forget to eat altogether.
3: I've noticed the hunger pains. My root emotional response to those is still, 'Oooh! Look! I'm doing a good thing! Let's see how much further I can take this.' Because I don't really enjoy the thought of me being a fucking idiot, I usually eat within four hours of these thoughts appearing. Also: I do notice the numbers on the scale going down, and it still brings an ashamed flush of pride to my face. I naturally want to push that further as well, no matter how pointless I know it is.
And of course, it helps when your mother makes oinking noises as you're getting your dinner. Kills an appetite right quick.
The thing that puzzles me most about all of this is that I'm happy. I have no reason to not eat, to lose weight, to do any of this. It isn't that satisfying. It's not a goal. It's not even a diversion, since I don't have anything I'd like to be diverted from. It's just something to pass the time. Another sensation to notice and smile at, I suppose. And I am. Illogical or not.
revoless.
6:22 p.m.
August 19, 2003.
Listening to: Criteria.