maybe this way, I can convince myself that they are actually irrational. I would like to sprinkle a pinch of humor to these, so take it all with a grain of salt.
but enough with the condiment metaphors.
that I am fat. That my thighs are fat, or my arms are fat, or my face is fat, or my left pinky finger is fat, or that a body part that is incapable of being fat is fat on me, simply for the fact that I am me, and therefore, I am inherently fat. That if I eat nothing, I will be fat, and if I eat everything, I will be just as fat, and if I become ill with a disease that causes one to lose weight, I will indeed still be fat. Fat fat fat.
that every creak or squeak or honk or subway passing by I hear is actually a mouse in my apartment. And the mouse will eat me. And I will die. Or the mouse will multiply into billions and trillions of mice. Kind of like that story I read in middle school, but with mice rather than birds. Clearly somebody is traumatized.
that I will never make it as a writer because I am actually a terrible writer and I am delusional to think otherwise. Or maybe I am a good writer, but I won't make it simply by virtue of being me. I'm not quite sure why, but probably because I am fat.
that every bad thing that happened to me is actually the product of my imagination. Kind of like Shutter Island. Or, kind of like what my mother told me all the time. "Oh, you were sexually abused? Liar." "Oh, I called you fat a hundred thousand times and this is why you don't eat now? Liar." Which I am not. A liar, I mean. But what if I am?
that people hate me and only put up with me because they feel bad for me. God, these people must be saints. Putting up with all my bullshit for years and years, and they don't even like me!
aren't the inner workings of my brain rather hilarious?
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