I seriously need to cut down on my daily allotment of Taylor Swift. There are very few pop artists I am actually decent at covering and Taylor Swift is one of them. (I know, I know.) Colbie Caillat is another. Have I redeemed myself? Perchance not. But I don’t care. There will be a time and place for Taylor Swift in every girl’s life. “White Horse” is right up there with “I’m Not That Girl” or, if you are me, you’ll chase that with “Midnight Bottle.”

So, I totally wrote this really not-upbeat song. It’s pretty and I like the ideas and the lyrics but good lord, I’m not ready to sing it. There’s a time and a place for sad songs, namely when you can yourself get through them without shedding a tear, and so I’m going to let it collect dust for a little while because I’m personally not there yet. Of course, this is also coming from the girl who honestly can’t listen to “Don’t Forget To Remember Me” without crying. Have you ever heard that song? It’s about a mother and a daughter parting and growing up and I heard it for the first time my last semeseter in London and I went to pieces somewhere between Marlborough Rd and Courtfield Gardens in the middle of Kensington.

“18 years have come and gone. For Mama they flew by but for me they dragged on and on. We were loading up the Chevy and trying not to cry–” this is where I start to lose it. So the chorus is something like, “There’s a $50 in the ashtray in case you run low on gas. But baby don’t forget to remember me.” Oh my gosh, one time I walked into our dorm room and Sam takes one look at me and she goes, “What has Adam done now?” HAHA. (Remember those days? Good news: Never again will there be anyone in my life who will put me in that position ever again & all those who did, are gone and that includes him. Am I sad? Not at all.) She was ready to rip someone’s head off. I pulled it together enough to tell her, “What? No. It’s nothing like that. It’s worse. I just found this song on the CD you gave me and it’s so incredibly the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” I called my mom five minutes later and I made her cry too. It was a fabulous moment for all of us. I’m pretty sure Sam and I went to buy food at the 24 hour Tesco later on to commiserate and came back with Krispie Kremes and Weight Watchers fudge bowls.

The topic of today’s blog will be thus: Days Off & Why I Loathe Them. Actually, it is slightly hilarious. I ran into Jonny (yes, Beach Jonny, Beer Pong Jonny, Tom Is Sitting On His Chest Jonny) at the mall today, and I literally haven’t seen him in months. I was happy to see him because he was one of my favorite people to talk to and he’s one of those people I am so blessed to have met but it was a little different. But, yeah, that’s the mall for you, which is actually where I ran into everyone I knew today in a 24 hour period, so I don’t think I’m going to head over there anytime soon and probably had my last mall trip before I move to Long Beach.

We all ended up hanging out for a while and Jonny actually voiced what I was trying to deny all day. He was like, “You know what? I hate having days off. Because I sit at home and go nuts. So I come here and my entire day gets eaten up by stupid crap and stupid people and AUUUUGH I HATE THIS I’M GOING TO THROW MY EFFING PHONE.” Something like that. Essentially that’s how I feel about my days off, of which I’ve only had one that I can remember in the past three weeks. A little less violent though, LOL. I told him I had never seen him so riled up–he’s usually so mellow and happy and sweet and…doesn’t swear as much, HAHA. Not that I should talk. But it’s true. I did the same thing on my day off. I get up, I get ready, try to find something productive to do, and then end up at the mall in a mad attempt to not sit at home and drive myself stir crazy. He also told me he’d been working for the past ten days straight and I gasped, “Is that legal?” Yes, it is. Well, then, why in the world haven’t I worked ten days straight? Someone hook me up with that. Because I can say without a doubt that I do not value or like my days off this summer. Nope, no way.

I came home tonight to some sad news, too, which I’ll share with all of you. Chuck Bass had an accident. A raccoon got into his cage early this morning and took him which makes me very sad not only because I will miss him, my little orphaned baby bird, but moreso because I hate thinking that he was scared or in pain when that darn raccoon came and I couldn’t protect him. I spent so many weeks worrying that the cat would get him, that’d he’d fall and hurt himself and the second I let my guard down and stop worrying, something happened to him. There’s also an apathetic, tough girl part of me that’s come out of late where I was like, oh, circle of life…what was I going to do anyway? Take him with me to Long Beach? I so would have but that’s just because it’s me–I adored that little chick. I raised him from when I could fit him into my hand and he came to me in such a happenstance way at a time where I needed a distraction, I needed something that would take my mind off of the fact that I was, without a doubt, hurt, confused, and tired from trying, caring, and then getting burnt, left doubting, to this day, that I even mattered at all. That’s the sad and shameful state Chuck came to me in, within that lovely hiatus I took in which I pretty much was dead to the blogging world.

I remember wandering down the stairs, eyes blurry, in my pajamas and all of a sudden, an hour later, I had inherited this little chick. He would sit in my hand. He was a little novelty. I’d never had a baby animal like that before.

Just earlier this week, Chuck and I sunbathed next to each other–he was my little shadow and was probably way too attached to people and completely unaware that he wasn’t a dog but a wild bird. I do that to animals. They’re totally normal before I come and influence them and then afterward they’re pretty much effed for life. Like, Tom. Or any of my cats. Or my dog. Chuck, in particular, would not only follow me and my family around at our heels, but he had very specific taste in music. I used to sing “Magic” to him when he was falling asleep and I promise you to this day, he’ll still sit still for that song. It’s his absolute favorite. Aww, and I remember starting to teach him how to fly because I felt bad his mama wasn’t there to do it for him.

My chick was special and a little blessing in disguise. He distracted me so that I didn’t cry as much as I had over friends, love, whatever was crapping on my head in May, helped me adjust to my new living situation, got me into waking up at 7 in the morning every morning to check on him, gave me something to talk about at work, and was something I could help and save. I’m going to miss him. Sometimes I really do believe that God or an angel will send someone or something in your pathway for a specific purpose and then when their job is done, they’ll go and so maybe this was his time to go. He watched over me enough to see me get super busy and back on my feet and moving away so maybe it was just his time. Still, it doesn’t make me any less sad. And it’s funny–I was just talking about when pets, in particular, are taken away from you too soon.

I seriously think that tomorrow is going to be a solitary day. I have work in the evening, YAY, and I was supposed to go see a movie with Eric but I’m really not feeling up to seeing anyone tomorrow. I just want to sit back, relax for the first time in almost a month (yes, I realize I should have done this today but I didn’t realize that I needed my Disney until about an hour ago when I took a billion quizzes on Facebook and it reminded me), and be by myself. And Disney. Because that will never fail to be a profound source of happiness.

Actually, that reminds me of something. When I was in the depths of struggling with my anorexia, I loved going to Disneyland. Yes, I was the type of eating disorder patient where going away for the day, the holidays, or even just eating out at a restaurant for a meal was a trauma and half, an ordeal I had to prepare myself all day in advance for. So it would seem that a full-blown vacation where I wouldn’t have control over what went into my mouth or the content of said food, would just overwhelm me. But no. I loved, loved going to Disneyland. I remember being in the hotel and looking at myself in the mirror and telling myself, look, I’m eating. I’m eating pretzels and Mickey Mouse hot dogs and frozen yogurt and I’m not killing myself over it. I feel so happy and I’m actually feeding myself. I wish that everyday of my life could be like this–that I could feel the way I feel here in Disneyland–every single day of my life. My food issues took a vacation while I was in Disneyland and I cannot tell you why. And I, in turn, didn’t pinch or prod myself at all, didn’t criticize or obsess over the non-existent body fat that was sure to pop up like wildflowers if I were to, you know, “be normal,” as my mom would put it. I think I was 13 when we took that trip.

So many years later, I wish I could tell my thirteen year old self that this day would come. I would live my life like every day was a day at Disneyland. I would eat things, feed myself, have fun, smile, and love myself and truly too–not because I was outwardly perfect, but because I was proud of what I was capable of doing. I think the greatest compliment I ever got was when I told someone very dear to me that I once was incredibly sick and battled an eating disorder that put me in the hospital twice, he looked at me and said, “Really? I could never have guessed that.” Every single other person I have ever told has answered, “Yeah, I could see that.” I’ll always remember when I told Adam or Jonathan, for instance. And it almost made me feel dismissed. But they’ve also got a point and it’s true. I think if you know me, it’s inherent in my personality that this might have been something that makes up a part of me. At the same time though, I think this other person knew me too. (Of course, this is also coming from the guy who has seen me unapologetically down half a bag of Baked Lays in front of him while we watched a movie. But that’s beside the point. I always marveled at the fact that, yes, I do tend to stress out when I’m around new people, especially guys, and I have to eat. I know I never did that with him. I think a huge part of our relationship was dedicated to eating very tasty foods because we shared so many, come to think of it. LOL!) I don’t know why that has stayed with me so much, maybe as a testament to the fact that while I might not be the strongest person or how I may take steps back and take things harder than most people, I do have one grand accomplishment in my life. Because honestly, of all the things, all the monsters I’ve had to overcome, from my dad’s accident to his hospitalization to living under the aftermath of his head injury, the hardest battle I ever had to fight was against myself.

So anyway, sometimes, I think about my successes and I’m proud. But a lot of times, especially quite a bit now, I obsess over my failures and my pitfalls, the things I have yet to accomplish or yet to overcome. But then I think back to that moment when I was 13 and yearning for the day that I could love the world, food, and “be normal” like it was some fantastical thing only possible in an unreal facade of a place like Disneyland. Because life may not be perfect, my life is not a scene from a Disney movie nor is it an episode of The O.C. by any means. But I do have the solace that as far as my ability to have a healthy relationship with food, I am now living everyday like I’m in Disneyland.

P.S. Having said that, I don’t know why, I think it must be stress, my weight’s been going up and down. I am currently on the down side of that. And yes, for how much I gripe about my fat ass, I should be grateful but at the same time, I have to admit that I’m already kind of a small person so it’s literally, I’m starting to swim in my clothes and I don’t like that. I’ve been upping the chocolate and I had a smoothie at the mall today so I’m sure I’ll be quickly on the mend but sheez. Such are the trials and tribulations of being 5′1″. Everything hits you like a ton of bricks–weight gain and loss. And I happen to not want to look fourteen when I move to Long Beach, thank you very much.