"I've Played Around and Stayed Around This Old Town Too Long..."

Well. I saw the nutritionist to-day.

Do you know what she told me, the dreadful woman? That I ought to weight one-hundred and fifteen to one-hundred and ten pounds. AHHHH.

Admittedly, she revoked this opinion when she found out how much I exercise, but--guhhhhh.

She said that I'm to drink more milk, because I need more calcium, which I already know but haven't fixed because I'm hungry all day as it is, and I really see no reason to substitute unfilling liquid for food. She said that I need more iron, for which I want to get supplements, while she suggests bran, which is omg a million points. She wants me to get more protein, but protein is also awfully high in points, so I doubt I will change my eating habits there. I already average three ounces for dinner alone, at any rate.

She poked my flabby upper arms and told me to lift weights. She suggested swimming and biking as additions to my exercise routine, a suggestion to which I am not averse.

She tells me that I must eat more. I am... reluctant to do so, really. I average about twelve-hundred calories a day; she suggests that I ought to be getting fifteen-hundred. But, see, I'm gaining weight. I really don't think I should be going up.

She told me to eat more fruit, which really astonished me, considering my intake is somewhere around two apples and possibly an orange or pear per day. At least she accepted my vegetable intake as proper.

She also told me that I am a young woman, and at some point I may want children, and in order for that to happen I must take care of my body and avoid doing things like stopping my period (which has, I should mention, happened again, even after cutting out carrots) and get extra vitamins (I already take supplements).

At any rate, I see her again in two weeks. Guh, say I. And again I say, guh. She is not reassuring me as much as I would have liked her to. I wanted her to say I looked fine and should stop losing weight, and instead she says I'm still fifteen pounds overweight. Ahhhhhgh. But in two weeks they will run a strange little test-y thing on me to see what my fat-muscle ratio is and what that means.

In the meantime, I have gone from seventeen to eighteen points a day and gained .2 pounds this week. Considering the Easter fiasco, I suppose that's not bad. Excelsior, and all that.

"Summer's Almost Gone, Summer's Almost Gone..."

At any rate, to-morrow Waen has her SDTs, so I'll be home alone to dissect the fetal pig's brane brain, and go out on my bicycle, and, presumably, do some writing, and then wander off to acting, bwee already.

I feel so guilty about this thread. It was very bad of me. I couldn't resist.

To-morrow I begin Edwin Drood! At long, long last, by heaven.

I am so behind on everything right now. I'm very sorry. I mean to catch up, because this is just absurd. If I have to go an entire day without touching desperatefans, I will, but I want to catch up on my flist and do all the things I normally do, like hanging about metaquotes and geeking on my journal. You lot are my best friends, for heaven's sake, and this neglect on my part is stupid. So until I have given you, my dear ones, the proper attention you deserve, I shall not spend my time in time-wasting enterprises; that is this week's resolution. Thank you.

Putting frozen Easter cookies in the microwave to defrost them is a very bad idea, by the way.

To-morrow I fetch down my Ragtime CD! Yeyness. And I really must write again. I'm unfortunately inspired to do Courfeyrac's chapter of Picture Portrait Gallery, and I just can't, because it's meant to be the last one. I need to write Grantaire, Bahorel, and Combeferre before I can do Courfeyrac. If I just sat down and did it, too, I'd be there...!

I must write again, then, and I shall.