[packing it on: filtered from admin/staff] [It's been one of those days where Narcissus, for once, has found himself somewhat happy. He slid into his clothes just like every other morning, did his hair, got himself perfectly perfumed and spent a decent amount of time gazing happily at himself in the mirror. The mirror doesn't lie to him, or have any reason to withhold the truth, which he's happy about, seeing as people these days seem to be telling him how cute he is (which isn't minded at all) or telling him rather openly that he's too skinny.
They tell him he's too skinny.
But Narcissus could never quite take their word for it. After all, the scale is more exacting, more clinical. There are averages and indexes and things to judge himself and other people by. Truthfully, it's been out of mind for a while. But today, he decided to give the little machine it's due and step on, with ginger footing and little clothing. Narcissus has an ideal number he wants to see, like most people. That perfect little number that makes someone happy to slide into a pair of jeans, or keeps them thinking they're doing a good job maintaining their lifestyle. His number is specific. Perhaps a little low, but to him, it's a very, very perfect little thing.
And as of today he's three point six fucking pounds over it.]
I seriously don't think I'm going to be eating for the next three days. Or maybe the next week. I don't even care anymore. I've been a bitch all week, people keep telling me stupid shit, and I'm probably just going to lay down and pretend like I don't exist for a while. Or forever.
Fuck this school. Fuck being here, fuck food, fuck being Narcissus and fuck my life.
I broke a mirror. It just made me feel worse. So fuck it.