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Great. My father just called me a tub of lard.
Great. I've had a long and TEDIOUS day at work, have to get on those journal readings tonight and he goes and messes up my mojo by calling me f-f-f-f-fat names. I can't help it if I've got a distended stomach from that bowl of Laksa during lunch or that I'm wearing a skimpy cotton singlet at the dinner table which accentuates my flippers. I'm doing ok for a beached whale if you ask me. Great, now i'm in self pitying mode and wallowing. Fuck. I hate the world.

Of course thoughts of starving till I'm skin and bones consume my thoughts every so often, but I just love food too damn much. This constant battle with chocolate and evil carbohydrates. Food Food Food. I just want to be skinny so they'll get off my back damn it. It's bloody irritating. TUB OF LARD! Damnit. I just need to hit rock bottom, just that once, then they'll stop their nagging, 26 years of it an counting (They used to call me Baby Sumo, go figure). When I get my MBBS, I'll device a way to branch off one's esophagus just before it hits to stomach, where food will pass into a disposable bag which is attached to a valve just below your diaphragm. So you can choose what foods go into your stomach and which do not. Let's see, Fatty steak- bag, veggies- stomach, coke-bag, water-stomach, chocolate-bag, fruits-stomach.

Yes.
This is the solution.
Now to work on getting that MBBS and stealing some tools.