March 24th, Year 22

Food weighs me down. It is a weapon against emotion. An American drug. I wonder why I never sought out its comfort before. It was used only to nourish me, but now I have come to understand that it has the power to kill feelings. There, in my stomach, it is a rock that anchors me to the present moment. Everything else ceases to matter. I eat until I feel physical pain, and the thoughts soon vanish. There is no more hatred, or remorse, or desire for the unobtainable.

Soon, it will widen my figure and bloat my strange face. Here, what some consider beauty, will be destroyed. I’ve no use of it anymore. I do not care for men, and I do not care for physical intimacy with them. Let them find me to be a large monster. Let them be as terrified of me as I am.

March 24th, Year 22

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