There's a tweet I remember reading, on the perils of the pandemic, this deadly second wave and the emotional toll it took. Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow started eating bread and it caused her a great deal of unhappiness and turmoil. I can empathise. I started eating breakfast again after four years, most of it was just to ensure there's some form of food I'm ingesting back when I was seriously ill in the hospital. I love bread and despite cutting that out of my diet to remain a size 8, I found myself eating that at the hospital. Don't make mistake, I would throw the lunch and the dinner away, until the Dietitian at the hospital realized, I'd only appreciate bread and therefore, prescribed sandwiches for lunch. Those call for another, separate post as dedication. Long story short, Gwyneth was upset eating bread and I was upset when I was told to get on with breakfast. 

Bread, then, re-entered my life in this second wave, much like it did with Gwyneth. The only notable difference was that I went to a size 14, in a month, after all that bread for breakfast. It's not something I want to know, but Google Photos insist on sending a poignant reminder with comparison shots, day after day and most of them have me without my arms in scars, my hair in place and my lipstick game strong. 

I do, very much, empathize with Gwyneth on her emotional trauma and the re-emergence of bread in her life. I would also have to blame steroids and other drugs I was injected, along with bread and even the near-death experience I faced this year around. A friend's boyfriend joked on a group video call, "At this point, you should ask the hospital to book you a suite, for your regular appearance." If only hospitals worked that way, I'd be way ahead of him to suggest that thought. Life's a battle, a fragile one at that. You can last as long as a China dish or a synthetic shirt. I'm moulded like a ceramic tea pot. Short, stout and almost too fragile, for anyone's care. 

It's been fourteen long years since I started writing, or rather, documented this journey in some form. Most of it is not public accessible anymore, but someday, it may just be, if I live long enough ie. 

Long enough to not care about scars on my arms, looking obese in photographs and not giving a damn about what someone thinks about me on the internet after reading what I wrote on the internet as a 15 yo, ill-tempered, ill-mannered teenager. 

On that note, I'd very much like to devour a whole vanilla rainbow cake with cream cheese frosting to mark this end of a beginning. The kind that involves size 14 garments again, lots of processed carbs to process complex emotions and perhaps, with a side of shamelessness. If the worst problem I had ever had was looking fat in the photographs then I believe I have a lot of shit show coming my way real soon.

Gwyneth- 1, Snobster- 0.