Ugh, ugh

160 today. Knew it was too good to be true. Damn it.
Actually, wait, scratch that last. What did I think was going to happen when I stuffed myself with grapes and bits of bread pudding all night long?
You see, the problem is this: I'm sort of in love. Not in love love, but a melancholy form of love that has left me weak and dreamy. (AND he noticed that I'd put on weight! He said 'very slightly' to be gracious, but bloody effing hell.) And unlike in novels, where the lovelorn heroine curls up in bed and refuses to eat (lucky bitch), I have no such luxury. All I want to do when my lover's gone away is to EAT. Godiva chocolates and sweet milky coffee. Fork-rich cake and tart, vinegar-y chips.

Instead, I'm embarking on a fast today. Nothing shall pass my lips except water and buttermilk. I want him to see me looking wispy and ethereal in my photos.

Wish me luck, lovelies. I will (breathes deeply) be strong.