Emotional eating is depressing.

Nugga, please.

It really is. My grandfather has been in the hospital since Sunday and I’ve taken that as my cue to eat everything in sight.

I even went to the gym and worked out hard for over an hour at least four times since then. Still gained two pounds when I weighed in this morning (but it may have been because I had to poop – I weighed a pound less than last week the day before.)

I haven’t slept right in about a week. I wake up every day feeling like I’m going to throw up because of all the crap I’ve been eating at night. Last night, my very small bible study (it’s really a book club but no one wants to call it that but me) collectively ate a dozen cookies, a big bag of peach rings, and a bunch of other crap. I’m still feeling sick over it. And I’ve got Red Lobster farts. They’re second only to Benihana farts.

I have a doctor’s appointment on the 28th to (hopefully) get a referral to the gym I’ve been going to. I’ve yet to figure out what I’m going to do between tomorrow when my pass runs out until then. Probably eat some more. I’m healthy like that.

I applied for a Social and Public Policy Masters degree from Duquesne today. I still have to write my essay, get recommendations, and take the GRE, though. Of course, when I brought up I did this, everyone is excited for me except my family. Why on earth should I ever go back to school? I already went to college. I need to get myself a nice little office job. I’d make an excellent secretary. (Fucking kill me.)

Goodnight, blog.

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