Godammit, I’m Mad!

No.

Of all the style bloggers who’ve been brought to my attention recently, this one disturbes me the most.

I don’t want to link to her or hurt her feelings. I just want her to eat!

How can one become so delusional that one’s starving body looks like a pin-up girl? This blogger likes to post several pictures of the same outfit, often posing saucily in front of various landmarks. She appears to be youngish, but her face is wrinkled from starvation and perhaps bulimia.

Just the other day, my sister and I were recalling our bouts of teenage anorexia. She can remember the exact moment that she decided to lose weight. We both remember how it was triggered by our dad, whose offhand comment about her weight was devastating to a sensitive 13 year old.

I can’t remember what triggered my anorexa, but it started when I was living in a place for juvenile delinquents. I got down to 96 pounds but still worried about calories. When I ate eggs, I threw away the yolk.

When you have anorexia, the image you see in the mirror can never be thin enough. Even your bones look too fat. All you care about is being thin and staying thin. You lose all capacity for being rational about your body.

A couple of years ago, I met a girl with anorexia who was also a drug addict. She reminded me a little of my younger self, and she was like a wounded bird that I longed to protect. She confessed to me that she cried after eating an apple. I tried to explain that her thinking was distorted.  She  died from huffing, thin as a twig.

A new study suggests that the propensity for anorexia begins in utero, due to hormone fluctuations. There is also a genetic component.  Therefore, it’s not just a reaction to cultural pressure and stereotypes. Maybe it’s an issue of seeking control when you  feel powerless: If you can control what you put in your mouth, you are in charge. That is the fallacy.

I hope someone can help the poor blogger. I hope someone can reach out to her, although who knows how many people may have tried and failed.

The good thing is that once you start to eat, your brain can work again. You begin to end the struggle with your body, and the spell can be broken, just by gaining a few vital pounds.

If you’ve battled with this shit, or you have an opinion, let’s hear it!

He’s young but he’s 6′ 1″ with green eyes.

Is it wrong to love Miles McMillen? Maybe for you it is!

I loved this image when I saw it here, even before I realized that the rings were created by Cami and Nadia of Di$count. Check out their stunning photos here.  The design is limited to only 50 rings, and you can order one for $180.

Imagine the ring worn over a thin leather glove. Or with blood red nail polish. Or any other arrangement. Mmmm.

All my devoted trolls are demanding that I go away and mourn. But the problem is, there’s no way to implement this. Mourning isn’t a thing you do in a black dress. Maybe they want me to spend all day at a cemetery. But it doesn’t matter where I am, it’s all the same barren place, a place I’d rather not be.

I am going through the motions, because that’s all I know how to do. I could take to my bed and never get up again. I’m not ruling that out. It just seems unfair to my family. I don’t know how to have a nervous breakdown or I’d gladly have one.

I don’t want to “recover” because mothers who bounce back after the death of a child seem despicable. How could anyone “move forward” after this? What would be the point?

I don’t know what to do besides cry or distract myself.  I’m still waiting for him to come back. When he does, I’ll try not to scold him for putting us through this. Meanwhile, I have to pick out a grave marker and then try to pay for it.

I started blogging as a way to express myself. Now, it’s a way to escape myself.

If one more moron whines about my “negativity” or complains that I “hate on” people, I’m going to lose my fucking temper. You can’t hate “on” people. But I might have to learn how.

On a rare night out with my husband, we drove to an independent bookshop where a guy we like was reading an excerpt from his new book. I felt tentatively hopeful. I almost never go out in the evening.  I was pleased to be doing something arty for a change.

We sat in the front row of chairs, since there weren’t many set up in the aisle at the back of the store. An affable guy read from his book about encounters on the bus.  Then, the guy we came to see introduced himself and read a short chapter of a charming, offbeat memoir of his childhood in New York.

Another guy quickly replaced him and introduced himself. His name was Chris D. I should have been warned by that D.

He gazed at his shoes and began a rambling account of his various artistic endeavors:  He was involved in music for 20 years, he had written several unproduced screenplays, poems, and short stories. He noted that some of his stories were based on dreams. He introduced a story about a couple of  war veterans from Vietnam, describing their convoluted situation.

He began to read the worst piece of writing I have ever heard in my entire life. He read in a deep-voiced monotone. Some GI was shooting dope with a Vietnamese prostitute named “Lucky.” The dope-shooting was described in lurid, over-the-top detail.  Veins, blood, abscesses, verbs, more blood, adjectives, then sex. “They fell to the floor and fucked each others brains out.”

I stared at my hands and played with my hair. I wanted to kill that fucker. I imagined a question and answer period after the reading, where I would confront him with the question: “Are you a junkie or just a fucking idiot?”

He read for close to 30 minutes. No cliche escaped him: It was hackneyed melodrama, both dismal and pointless.

We left the second he stopped reading. Outside as we walked to the car, I exclaimed, “What a fucking motherfucker!” My husband agreed. He added that the guy had once been in a band called The Flesh Eaters.

Back home, I googled Chris D and saw how important he was to the L.A. punk scene.

Nothing is sacred, not even old punkers.

I am left with these two thoughts:

1. I am fucking Tolstoy compared to that bastard Chris D.
2. I can’t even enjoy a simple night out.

I was innocently reading a thing about the Beats in NYC, when I came across the name Genesis P-Orridge.

What a story! Genesis Breyer P-Orridge is an artist/provocateur who decided to turn himself into his wife, a dominatrix known at Lady Jaye. They spent $200,000 on surgery and other procedures, in an effort to turn themselves into identical beings who would then metaphorically become a Third Person. Or something.

Lady Jaye died before the project was completed but P-Orridge now refers to him/her self as “we.”

Read more here, or google his/her/their name to find more images. Or maybe everyone already knows about this, just like the ponies. No one ever tells me anything!

That does sound like a cute day, doesn’t it?

Neither do I!  But a whole lot of people are working hard at this very moment to perfect their gait and spruce up their saddles in preparation for some exciting “ponyplay.”

Why am I the last one to find out about stuff like this?? My husband showed me an article in the LA Weekly about a 50 year old woman who dresses up like a pony and makes a good living at it. She goes to crazy pony events where ponies and masters hope to hook up, and others where the ponies compete for awards.

Listen, I understand role-playing. Naughty schoolgirl, fine. Cantering around with a bit in my mouth and a tail in my butt, I’m just not feeling it.

Here are some hooves you can buy….”Nice look, clip-clop sound when used on the floor.”

What the fuck is wrong with people, you know? Life is so difficult and complicated and so easy to screw up, why try to live it as a fake pony?

Charlie is 17 and just recorded a CD. Why is he so accomplished? He didn’t get it from me, that much is obvious.  You can check out his music here. Listen to it, buy it, or just be jealous that my kid is so awesome.