I’m becoming truly obsessive by exercise. I am currently running around the block twice in the very early morning, and doing 200 star-jumps. I also run around the block once, very late at night, on occasion. I run around the town once directly after school, also, and have recently added a loop through the park at the end. Whenever I add an adjunct, an ornament or curlicue, usually as compensation for an individual indulgence, it instantly hardens into a new habit, like some sort of instant setting concrete.

I also run around the house as much as possible, including while brushing my teeth for 2 minutes (on the kitchen timer, with 30 seconds mouthwash, also.) This usually garners me over 3000 calories, according to my Fitbit, but I like to break the 4000, which I do on occasion.

You’d think I’d have a catastrophic crash, given that, from a purely mathematical perspective, I should have a calorie deficit every day. As you can tell, my tone is one of regret. I want to have a catastrophic crash, which, ironically, is possibly evidence of hard-line anorexic thinking, which is, reflexively, evidence of a catastrophic collapse: complicated tangles of ambivalence are characteristic of the condition. Obviously, my meals are more calorific than they appear, and this makes me fret about them, especially about the amount of bread.

The canteen at work has also started remaking those gorgeous yogurts that I fear and adore in equal measure. They’ve actually got bigger – they’re now distressingly big, heavy in the hand, and horribly gorgeous to eat. Oh my god, they’re lovely! And depressingly nourishing (a terribly bad word for me). I have started brushing off much of the crumble topping, and binning 5 teaspoons of the stuff. I still feel too sustained, abandoned by my comforting hunger and exhaustion and searching desperately for it.

I’m even becoming faintly worried about my farts (too smelly, unlike when you’re really ill) and my poos (possibly less frequent but still soft and normal).

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