I don’t often have the urge to shoot strings of swear words at people, but I seem to feel the fit coming on me now. Mao, dear, I half-hope you don’t read this, and please forgive me, but fuck you, fuck you and what you’re doing. Of course I’m jealous, I’m jealous of anyone who has what I want even if I’ve gotten rid of it, I’m so fucking jealous you have no idea. But you know, you’re not the only one who’s put herself through more shit than she deserves, gone through hell and back as many times as she could just because she could, damnit. You’re not the only one who’s been so fucking fascinated by the skeleton concept, populace-pulling, hypocritical, superficial, "image doesn’t matter" shit.

I hate it when people I’m fond of start hurting themselves, I fucking hate it. Jessie started up on it years ago. I was still pulling the populace, operation, etc. I’d gone nuts inside my head and she’d gone nuts everywhere else. Eventually, we caught on to each other. I made her promise to stop smoking everything she could get her hands on, she made me promise to eat at least one meal a day, and for a little while we were both straight-edge and uncomfortable. She broke her half of the bargain within a month. I found out and, not unwillingly, retaliated by breaking mine. This was in ninth grade. The matter itself started in eighth. The summer before tenth grade was the worst-best. I got down to 103 then. I was about five foot seven. I looked like a goddamn corpse. I could count to a two-digit number on my rib cage without inhaling, I wore two sets of clothes one on top of the other every day—serving as a guarding mechanism and the like—and I was ecstatic.

You were talking before about how you used to look like a skeleton and no one noticed. Of course no one noticed, no one ever notices what’s going on right in front of them. What the hell did you expect? In this day and age, a skeleton is more likely to get a modeling contract with Calvin Klein than concern or sympathy from friends and family. My eighth grade Spanish teacher sent me to the vending machine once and that was it.

You’ve sneered and snorted about the influence of society, etc, so why the fuck are you succumbing to it? Again (recalling what you said before)? Anti-conformity, I thought you were all for it; what happened there? Sustenance or lack thereof took priority? Is it the one thing you have absolute control over, the one thing that makes you happy? You’re not "pro-ana," you claim, so what, pray tell, are you and what the hell are you doing? Healthily wasting away? Just a little more, right, a little more till you’re a bit above a hundred, at a hundred, a bit below, a bit below a bit below? You’re five-four, almost, neh? Even if you only want to make it to a hundred, its still underweight. I assume you know that, that you’ve done your reading, research, you’re smart, you know what you’re doing. And its addictive, you know that too, don’t you? Once you get that low, you’ll want to go lower and lower, just because you can, or so I’ve noticed, read, etc. Or am I just overreacting? Nah, can’t be… I’m waxing motherly, very sorry, but I really am worried. Not that worrying ever results in anything, but I wanted to let you know.

I’ve spent most of my life not knowing what to do. Forwards, backwards, inwards, outwards, here we go again…

Hell and damnation. This isn’t mine to fuss over, but I will if no one else does.

Adieu