Good morning to all my modest cholesterol fans who don’t sen..

Good morning to all my modest cholesterol fans who don’t send me money. Today, I’ll altruistically delight you with a new post! First, the usual part, and then the hatepost.

The Usual Part

I’m tired of maintaining this body. I don’t understand the concept of a body. Different people message me, telling me I’m very sexy and that I evoke desire. Are they talking about me? About this rotting piece of flesh, covered in a luscious layer of fat? I’m not saying fat is bad or good—every fat girl will find her admirer, and that’s fine. It’s just that I don’t perceive myself as a woman. I wasn’t raised within the confines of any stereotypes—neither in how I dress nor in how I behave. I’m just a person. And for the first time in my life, I’ve consciously entered a space where objectification is normalized and even elevated. But in my mind, this creates an absolute dissonance because the person in the photos isn’t me. I’m here, in my head, in these words that I’m writing. But not there. There, it’s just a body.

I’m tired of washing it, tired of lifting it in the morning, tired of dressing it. Tired of taking care of its needs, tired of hearing sounds, tired of speaking. How much longer do I have to do this? You take one sip of water, and already you have to visit bathroom. You brush your teeth, and they’re dirty again. And heaven forbid you don’t keep up with it all—everything falls apart. What’s the point? It’s just decomposition. Decomposition stretched across a lifetime. The only things we know about life are that we exist in this moment and that someday we’ll die. Past memories and future plans are subjective—they might as well not exist at all. Time only exists to prevent everything from happening all at once.

So why am I living if I’m not truly alive? Why? For pain, for boredom. To keep failing over and over when my strength and resources are already depleted. To watch people around me lose their minds, turning into grotesque versions of themselves. To bury my dogs and see the wrinkles deepen on my mother’s face. I hate this. I hate this piece of meat. I don’t know if I’m trapped inside it or if I am it, but I don’t understand if I ever chose this. If only I knew why.

The Hatepost

And now, the rant: I also hate courier services. This morning, I got a text saying my delivery would arrive between 9 and 11:30. I planned to take some photos but patiently stayed in bed waiting. By 11:25, I figured the package would probably just be dropped off at a locker. So, I got in the shower and started taking photos, and of course, that’s when the courier called. Great. Soaking wet, I threw on a robe and ran outside. I stood there like an idiot for another 15 minutes before finally getting my boots. As usual, courier services exceeded all expectations.

Then my father showed up. Naturally, the first thing he did was flood the sink just by washing his hands. (When he used to live here, he’d constantly eat, leaving the sink full of dishes and water. I’d wash them over and over, and my hands became painfully dry and inflamed.) He started asking me how things were at home and how Mom was doing. Really? How do you think Mom’s doing after you spent 15 years using drugs, drinking, and then left her for another woman while her father was dying? Probably fantastic. I tried to answer his questions in monosyllables so I wouldn’t lose my temper. But honestly, it’s infuriating.