i think that’s what they call body dysmorphism

I complain that I have no idea what my body looks like, that I have no idea what size I am, or what body type I have or how I look and how I’m supposed to dress, and you say, yeah, yeah, whatever, that’s weird, and how is that possible? How can you really be so completely distanced, so remote from your body that you don’t know what you look like? Is it really possible to be that blind–I mean, you’ve got eyes and a mirror, don’t you, woman? Eyes and a mirror kind of failed me, and I’m still not sure what to think, exactly.

On Saturday, after E kicked me out of the house to get some sun and ice cream and ride around, because I was getting grumpy and hunkering bear-like in my cave. I pedaled around town, read my book in the sun with a cone of burnt almond mocha fudge awesomeness, and then toodled by the giant thrift store not too far from home. I skidded into the parking lot, locked up my bike and went to browse. I ended up browsing for hours and hours, and filled up an entire cart full of stuff.

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