A Quick Fix.

Doing anything every day is becoming an exhaustive and tedious exercise.
Oh how I long to return to the days of blissful freedom, echoing with a dull undertone of responsibility that I do not deem a priority.

I have to start cooking for myself. Today's breakfast was a frozen pizza with an alfredo sauce, cubed chicken, bacon, spinach and mushrooms. It sounds good in theory, but thinking of it now is making me mildy ill. Actually, it's making me more than mild, it's making me flat out sick. It's somehow managed to squirm beside Pizza Pockets and Sunny D on the, "foods that Anna will never eat again because she's vomitted them up too many times," list. Blech.
And even then, what sort of a breakfast is a fucking pizza?

Andrew came to visit yesterday.
At one o'clock, when he arrived, I was still in my cat pyjamas. I did laundry all morning and I cleaned and showered and primped and fussed over myself so I would look smart when he arrived. He of course, found me in my sleep-wear, camped out infront of the television, watching What Not to Wear and drinking hot chocolate. I even had on my fuzzy slippers. A sight of beauty to behold, I assure you.
He wanted to have sex, but when he tried to pop open the buttons on the front of my pj's I scrambled to keep my shirt closed. Since this whole stripper mess, I've relapsed into a, "I'm not hot enough because my boyfriend wants strippers" pyscho and am having serious self-image issues. I could not of course tell him this, because as it makes me feel stupid to think it, it makes me feel more stupid to admit it. So he backed off, and we didn't have sex. Instead we went shopping.

SHOPPING.

I went shopping with my boyfriend for shoes. Gross. Well, boots actually, but still gross. It wasn't as awful as I thought it would have been. I needed the boots and he calmly watched as I stratgically approached the shops in the mall, asking the clerks if they carried a size twelve. TWO STORES, out of the whole mall did and only one, had one pair of boots in an actual size twelve. Thankfully for my feet, I liked them.
So my on-sale-eighty-dollar-from-two-hundred-dollar-fabulous-suede-knee-high-boots went on Andrew's credit card and the only thing I thought was,

"I guess I have to put out now."

Is there something wrong with that?

The bad thing about staying up all day after working a night shift is that as the day grows older, your eyes become heavier and your memory becomes complete crap. So when I finally found the balls to discuss the, "I'm not pretty" matter with Andrew, I was so unbelievably tired, that all of my sussed out emotional problems fell to the side of the road for the sake of a quick fix during an emotionally charged dinner.
He didn't persue the comment the way he persued his arguement regarding the first stripper issue. He seemed more concerned than anything. He knows that my self image is badly wounded because of other ex boyfriends and the whole of my life at large, but I don't think he ever wanted to be a cause to add to that problem.
I can't remember what he said, or even what he did to make me feel at ease, but I felt better by the time we got home.

The original problem has hardly been resolved. The problem eventually got to the point where nothing else could be said and so I told him that if it was really that important for him to go, than it had to be done behind my back, because I just didn't want to know about it. I even told him to lie to me if the topic was ever raised. That makes me feel like complete shit, but what other option is there? None right now. If it bothers me so badly down the road, when we're faced with the actually event rather than a hypothetical topic of conversation, than I'll have to leave him. For now though, it seems the better option to hope that he respects how I feel and do what's best for our relationship rather than his friend's opinion of their buddy.