I don't like worrying about my weight, no I don't. But I do, worry about it, I mean. I weigh myself at least 5 times a day. I agonise for over an hour if the scale says something I don't like.

I've been eating carefully for quite a while, been faithful to the eat right and exercise regularly routine, I haven't significantly lost anything, and if I do, it's only 1 or 2 kilos. I take about two weeks to lose that, and two days of weakness is enough to make me put it all back on. I've been eating so much junk food for the past two days or so and I feel utterly disgusting. Too much of an emotional eater to diet successfully.

But I don't care much about anything anymore. I smoke because my life isn't worth those few extra years added on if I didn't. I should eat whatever the hell I want if it pleases me, it should work on the same principle, shouldn't it? I don't study because I don't really care about the consequences of failing to do so.

I broke down about two days ago. I don't know what can be considered a mental breakdown but I just sat down in the bath and cried. And cried. I felt so much of despair, and desolation, and utterly incapacitated. For the first time in my life, I felt the meaninglessness of my existence. How fucking melodramatic.

Please don't leave me any messages about this entry, I just need to let it out somewhere.