You’re telling me cute things. All the things to make me smile and melt my.heart. And then I realize. You’re high. And very, very, drunk. So the happines I felt about everything, dies.
The way we talk upsets me. Why can’t we just be straight forward and tell each other how we feel instead of using fucking metaphors?
You really don’t get how fucked up I am. This is why I bitch and moan about going to the gym, so I can lose weight the healthy way. I need you there with me, so I don’t end up throwing up my meals. You don’t have a clue.
And once you throw up, you still feel fat. But now, you feel worthless, not good enough, still having the urge to throw up everything until you’re empty so there’s nothing left.
Don’t prentend to understand people with eating disorders. You try skipping meals for a week, drinking only water, chewing ice and still feeling fat. And once you realize that doesn’t work, try actually eating, feel disgusting and then find yourself with your head in the toliet, puking up dinner. STILL FEELING FAT. Do not tell me ‘its okay. It’ll get easier’. No bitch, it gets harder to control. You have no idea how hard it is to lose weight healthy once you’re down this path.
I need to walllow.
You’re my best friend. You shouldn’t be treating me like this. You always give me crap for the guys I date. You always give me crap for how I look. You are the only boy I trust. And I know its something dumb like prom, but you asked me. You helped me pick my dress, shoes, make up & hair styles. And now you decide to bitch out & say you don’t want to go. Again, prom is dumb but it was OUR thing. We were gonna pre game & talk shit about people. And now we’re not. And I shouldnt be upset, but I feel like I barely know you now.
Relationships suck. This is why I’ve been single for a year. Its too complicated and I hate complicated. Just give me a simple guy, who can says he likes me and trusts me and ill be happy.
Never have I been nervous for a date, and now I am. My stomach has butterflies & my heart is racing. I like you.
