Today was very good for me as far as therapy goes. it has helped me to reshape my memoir in a way that seems to fit better than what I had originally planned. It took me half an hour to write one paragraph, but I think it has the potentional to turn into a good jumping off point for my story.

To write memoir:

Start with a bit of musing, present the problem, report what you found out, and then tell the entire story of how you got there, followed by the internal shift that occurred as a result.

My rough forward or first paragraph:

           I’ve always looked for someone or something to show me the way. I never believed in God, but I’ve had no problem making a person my higher power. When I first decided to write this memoir, I had planned to write about abusive relationships and my final escape from a man that almost certainly would’ve killed me had I stayed. I thought men were my problem. My relationships with men over the years have been enmeshed, volatile, isolating, and abusive, so it would’ve been easy for me to say. However, unhealthy relationships have abounded throughout my life. From parents to teachers to bosses to girlfriends to substances to groups, I made each of them my God. I believed that if I followed them and did exactly as they said that they would provide me with all the love and happiness I couldn’t give myself. I depended on them to tell me how to live, who to be, and what I’m worth. Typical of someone who depends on others to act as director of her life, I also blamed them when I could no longer rely on them. I ran from one to another, always believing that the next one would finally make me whole. After writing out two thorough outlines for a memoir and finding that neither one seemed right, after recounting all of the painful experiences and false hopes I held about others, I realize there is one definite, undeniable common thread weaving through the fabric of my life; me.

I was going to write something tonight, but the damn Adobe Flash Player was being a bitch and now it's time to pick up HAM from work. I am in my memoir writing class now. Also, applying for full time jobs and going on interviews, secretly hoping I don't get hired so I can go to grad school and eventually become a professor of Creative Writing after I become a successful author. I am also making this AMAZING vegan minestrone soup regularly, which is not only saving me money, but delicious and healthy too. I am loving the whole cooking thing lately. I'm good at it and I am slowly converting HAM to veganism through example (never through pressure because that is guaranteed to backfire). HAM is getting worse and worse at saying "I love you" lately. It's so hard for him, even though it's easy for him to show me he loves me in every other way. Why are those words so hard for him to say? I am wearing my hair in pigtails for him RIGHT NOW. I made him soup. I am picking him up from work so he doesn't have to spend money on a cab. I told him today, just like Bryan Adams said, "Everything I do, I do it for you." And it's true - I always want to make him happy and keep him loving me. But he's so weird about just saying those three fucking words, even when he knows how happy it makes me. I mean, I know what makes him happy - pigtails, homemade food, deep-throating, and back massages. I do all of that for him. Why can't he just say "I love you" a few times a day? Why is that such a problem? But whatever, that's besides the point. The real point is I want to go to grad school, I want to be a professor. Becoming a "professional" will only deter me from that path and that sucks hairy balls. So anyway, thanks, Adobe, for making this post so short and wishy-washy. What I really wanted to say was something eloquent and poetic, with deep social underpinnings. But instead, this is it. Damn you, Adobe!

Just wondering, do I look fat or ugly? Because HAM hardly ever wants to fuck me anymore. I have to put my hair in pigtails and do my makeup perfect and dress up in slutty clothes and get him drunk before he wants to fuck me. That's too much work. Why can't he just think I'm cute because he loves me? Why do I have to do so much shit just to get some? It's not that I don't like doing all that - it's fun most of the time, but I don't like feeling like I have to do those things to get his attention. Every night, before I even try, he's like, "Damn, I am so tired. I just wanna pass out." So, I can't even try to fuck him at that point. I really don't want to be one of those girls who ends up chasing some poor, undesiring man around the house. I don't wanna be Peg Bundy. And I don't wanna me single forever. I want to get married. And I may or may not want to have a baby. Not that I'm into the idea of child-rearing, but I am into the idea of having someone to take care of me when I'm old. I'm tired of having a really great friend that I sleep next to and spend all my time with - I mean, I like those things, I'm not tired of it, I just want to be desired, and I feel like I'm not and I can't talk to him about it and it sucks. I miss us fucking every night. Now I'm lucky if I get it twice a week, or once a week, and then he has to have a few beers first. It seems like every time we've fucked in the last couple months, it has been after some drinks. It's really stupid. It hurts my feelings and makes me feel like there's something wrong with me. It makes me want to cry. And I have been doing so well on this diet, too! I eat salad every day at lunch, and vegetables and lentils for dinner. I don't eat sugar or anything bad for me. Not even any gluten. My carb intake is way down. I am looking pretty good these days. But I am too poor to get my hair done and nails done, and I guess he needs all that shit, plus lingerie, to have any desire for me. That's what's lame about dating a young guy. He's so superficial. I've rarely had this much trouble getting sex out of my own boyfriend. I feel totally unattractive. The last time I had this much trouble getting sex out of my own boyfriend was when I was in a relationship with a gay guy. I know HAM's not gay, so that means he just doesn't want to fuck me. And like I said, that hurts my feelings a lot. At least I have shit to focus on now, like this memoir writing class and studying for the LSAT. Yeah, I said the LSAT. BG's latest plan is to be an animal rights lawyer. Let's see how long this plan lasts. If I could bet myself, I'd bet until my next period, so about three weeks. I am so tired of giving up on shit, it gets really exhausting. I just want to stick with something. And FUCK I want to move out of my dad's house. And it seems like I will be stuck here forever. I have no money, my hours are getting cut at work, there are no job prospects out there, and everything just sucks my imaginary balls. Oh, and I have folliculitis, so I have to take long-term antibiotics and I can't shave, can't even trim, you know where. Just one more thing to turn HAM off. Great. His birthday is in two days and I'm giving him a $200 gift certificate from me to redeem for tattoo work. I am such an awesome girlfriend and yet I feel neglected sexually. He is still present in other ways, and still sweet, but he just doesn't want to fuck me. I hate it. I think I really need that to feel attractive and loved. I feel like he doesn't really want to be with me if he doesn't want to fuck me. Sorry for saying fuck so much, but we don't make love - we only did that when we were both high on opiates. It turns out that what people say when they are on opiates is all bullshit. So all the "I want to be with you forever" shit is just that - shit. It's meaningless and I didn't realize that until I read "Scar Tissue", Anthony Keidis' memoir. He was a total junkie and he mentioned all the bullshit love talk people spout when they're high on opiates. I am such a fool sometimes. I actually believed everything he said. But it's obviously bullshit because he NEVER says it now. Who knows if he even wants to marry me one day. If one day, then why not at least make plans now? Why not ask me now and then it will happen "one day". But he won't do that, NO, because he doesn't even want to marry me. He doesn't know what he wants. Maybe he wants a place to stay, a ride, I don't know. Maybe he loves me. But I don't think he has any intention of being with me forever. It was just something he said when he was high. 

Be aware of my thoughts. That's what I'm supposed to do. What we hear when we're children is absorbed like water into a sponge. As a child, I heard I was fat, and I knew that no one liked me, so my brain equated being thin with being loved. And even though I am currently aware of this and realize that it is illogical, it's been so deeply engrained in me that I have to retrain my brain to believe something different. So the psychiatrist says, "Be aware of your thoughts" and try to stop them. She says I have a bit of body dysmorphic disorder. She says I look great. I showed her the big roll of fat on my stomach but she ignored it. I told her that I can't have dysmorphia if the fat is actually there, but regardless of the fat being there, I want to stop obsessing about it. She says "be aware of your thoughts". I would prefer a quicker fix than hours of therapy and being aware of my thoughts. What about hypnosis? Isn't there something I can do that won't take a long time? I'm tired of this shit. I am so tired of making everyone's life miserable with my constant, "I'm fat" ramblings. No one cares, no one agrees with me, and people resent feeling like they have to tell me I look good when they know I'll just keep saying I'm fat. I don't want people to be annoyed or resentful of me. I don't want people to dislike being around me. I guess I'm more likeable as a fat person with good self-esteem than I fat person with low self-esteem. Surprise! So I just have to accept the giant roll of fat on my stomach and not let it bother me. That just seems impossible. I guess I can at least start with not saying anything out loud. Maybe if I internalize the self-hatred, people won't resent me. God, this is just such bullshit. If only I could just lose the fat, then I wouldn't even have to worry about any of this, because when I'm thin, I know it, and when I know I'm thin, I don't complain about being fat. Therapists assume that it's something I complain about and see in myself no matter how much I weigh or how I look in the mirror, but the reality is that when I am thin, I know it, and I feel better about myself. I don't complain about being fat when I'm not fat. I guess the problem is that my standards for myself are higher than other people's. For me, I need to be in between a size 0 and 2 to feel like I'm thin. For other people, they think I am thin now. However, I am a size 4 now, and this is too big for me. I am a small person, only five foot two and three quarters. I have small bones and a small frame, and I don't need to be 123 pounds. It's too much for me. I should be 115 at maximum. I would prefer to be 110. I think this is reasonable. I'm not trying to be a skeleton, I've been anorexic and don't want to go back there. I like food. I don't want to look like a teenager. I just want to be height/weight proportionate...on the lower end of height/weight proportionate.If you look at the height/weight chart for someone who is five foot two with a small frame, they should weigh in between 108 and 121 pounds. So, I technically am two pounds over weight. And all I want is to be on the lower end of that chart. I don't want to be underweight. And you can ask anyone who knows me - when I'm at my ideal weight, I don't complain about being fat. Does my life get any better when I'm thinner? No, not really. Do I expect it to? No, not really. But it's certainly nice to be able to take my mind off my gut and start focusing on other things, so I guess there is a slight upswing in my quality of life when I am thin. However, there is the burden of trying to maintain that weight, and the fear that one taste of sugar will send me into the downward spiral of cheesecake-induced insanity. But you have to understand, I've spent most of my life as a cute girl, one who gets a lot of attention and double-takes from boys, and, while it may not be as epic as winning a Nobel Peace Prize, it still feels good. It feels great, actually, to be desired, to be "hot". And as I get older, I know that will continue to fade away and I will have to rely on my charm and quick wit to woo others, it's still painfully difficult to let go and let the younger girls have their moment in the spotlight. Like EP (aka Hot Girl), there's this one photograph of us together, and she just looks so radiant and shiny, full of life, almost glowing. And there was me, next to her, pale (literally) in comparison. I look okay, not terrible or anything, but certainly not glowing or shiny. I look dull, lifeless, like limp hair. That's age. EP doesn't tan, doesn't get her hair done, doesn't get her nails done, doesn't do any of the maintenance that I do to stay looking cute, yet she looks amazing next to me. So, shit, I've gotta stay on top of my game. Gotta get that tummy tight, gotta whiten those teeth and bleach that hair. I'm not ready to give up yet. And yet, no matter how thin and pretty I am, I still have no friends. I have one guy who loves me, and I love him, too, but I always wonder why he loves me and when he's going to leave. Sometimes I look at him and think, fuck...this guy is so gorgeous, in such good shape, he looks like a damn Abercrombie & Fitch model. He gets checked out by gay guys everywhere we go (so you know he's hot, because whether a man is gay or straight, you can count on him being superficial and attracted to beautiful things), so what does he see in me? I guess I'm pretty funny. And smart. An airhead, but smart, nonetheless. And he thinks I'm cute. Beautiful, sometimes. So I need to just accept that he loves me, believe that he wants to be with me and that he's not going anywhere (like he says). But I know he doesn't want a fat girl. He hates fat, especially on girls. He wouldn't be able to get a hard-on for a fat girl. So I have to at least stay thin for HAM. If not for the rest of the world, then at least for HAM. So anyway, I'm rambling, it must be time to stop, but the real point of all of this is that I need to be aware of my thoughts and stop them when they are negative because I am pretty awesome, and would be more awesome if I would shut the fuck up about my weight.

Well, of course, I overreacted about the wood. After going to Home Depot and Lowe's and not having any luck, I decided to just email my dad a confession. He assured me it was not that big a deal, that he had plenty more wood and stain for the wood, and that it could probably just be sanded out anyway. And I could breath again. Ahhhh.

Today I got my hair bleached lighter. I am seriously blonde now. I have this thing online called Mint that uploads all of my financial accounts and separated my spending, etc. into categories. It turns out I spend more money on my hair than I spend on food. Jesus! I guess my hair is to me like shoes are to most girls. Even when you're feeling fat and there aren't any clothes that fit, buy a new pair of shoes and all is well. For me, I really don't care for shoe shopping. I would go barefoot if I could. But my hair - I would go to the salon every week if I could afford it. I love how it looks when I leave the salon, so smooth and healthy, no dark roots, every strand in place, shiny, pretty, perfect. I do a pretty decent job with my hair, but nothing beats the work of a professional. In the past, before I could afford the salon, I dyed my hair every possible color. Every time something terrible happened, I would dye my hair. Every time I broke up with a guy, or if I had really awful PMS, I would dye my hair. After I left E and was living in the domestic violence shelter, I cut off my dreadlocks. Then I went on a platinum blonde crusade, stealing bleach and developer from beauty supply stores once a week in an attempt to get my hair to look like Marilyn Monroe's. It probably started when my Mom bleached my hair for the first time when I was 12. I don't remember if any tragic incident occurred before she did it, but I wouldn't be surprised, as the year 12 was a rather hellish year for me. We were living in these disgusting condos, Bellevue Manor, on 148th. It was the ghetto of Bellevue. Still is, in fact. My mom was in a relationship with TM, the biggest, fattest, loudest, most disgusting Italian jerk-off on the planet. His teenager daughter moved in with us, too. She was a crackwhore...no seriously...she was a 15 year old whore. I'm not positive if it was crack that she was after, or just the love and attention that her father never gave her, but whatever her reasons, she was selling her body. TM was horrible to me. He wouldn't let me talk on the phone. We had one phone line in the condo and in the living room, a little red light would turn on on the phone console whenever someone picked up the phone in any room. So if I picked up the phone in my bedroom, TM would see the light, storm in, and make me hang up. He wouldn't let me open the refridgerator. I would walk into the kitchen, reach out for the fridge door, and he would yell from his throne on the couch in front of the TV to back away from the door. When I would get home from school, I liked to watch TV for a while, but when he got home from work, he would tear into the living room, sit down on the couch practically on top of me, grab the remote out of my hand, and change the channel as if I did not exist. One time I came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around me (my bedroom was right next to the bathroom) and he came after me, screaming about something (I don't remember what), grabbed me the neck, and pushed me up against the wall in my bedroom. He was actually holding me up by my neck so my feet her dangling. My towel started to fall off, but he didn't care. He was up in face, screaming at me and I was terrified of this asshole. He was the most controlling jerk I'd ever known up to that point in my life. He was fat and he let his bodily functions fly whenever he felt like it. He yelled and swore all the time. He had road rage before there was a name for road rage. But my mom loved him for some reason, no matter how fucked up his kids were (his son was no better- in and out of jail and rehab and only 19 years old), and no matter how abusive he was towards me. So, I don't know, maybe in my mind, dying my hair is a way to escape pain? Maybe that's taking something superficial a bit too far, but I think there is some truth to it. She would also do things like take me shopping at Ross (Ross was third in my highest spending categories on Mint), and she would buy sweets and we would indulge together. She would buy 2 lb bags of peanut butter M&M's, or an entire cake, or a box of cookies and some ice cream. There were always sweets around, but especially if I was going through a hard time. Sweets were one the ways she helped me to feel better. And today, my three biggest spending categories are hair, food, and Ross. If I include all stores, not just Ross, shopping is the highest category I have. Five times that of hair. So I am addicted to dying my hair, shopping, and sweets. Big surprise. Mystery solved. But even if I am aware of the root of my compulsions, it doesn't stop them. I still want chocolate. I still want to be blonde. I still want a new pair of jeans. I wure would love a way to stop feeling like I need these things. I know I'm a shopping addict. I shop like I'm made of money, even though I only work part time and I am in major debt. It's actually really out of control. But I just want to spend. Sometimes it's not even the spending, just the shopping. The hours spent wandering around a store, picking things out, trying them on, making a decision. Half the time I don't even buy anything, even after spending hours in a store. There's something trance-like, meditative, about shopping. It's soothing and mind-numbing. Everything else just fades away, like how it would for a gambling addict when they're shoving quarter after quarter into a slot machine. The only time I come back to reality when I'm shopping is when I'm in the dressing room and i have to face how fat I actually am. Like today, for instance. I was wandering through Ross and I found some cuter jeans. I went to try them on and I could barely pull them up over my fat legs. They were glued to me, and they were a size 5! It's repulsive. It wouldn't be so bad if my stomach wasn't a bowl of Jello. I wouldn't mind being a size 5 if I had a nice, tight stomach but just had a big fat ass. A fat ass is fine if the rest of you is tight. Look at Kim Kardashian. She's made millions off that fat ass. But she has a small waist. That's key. My waist is soft and it has no definition. It has become grotesque. It makes me so sad because my waist used to be rock hard. You could see the muscles rippling through my skin. I looked HOT in a bikini. And this was only last summer. Now, it's Jello. Even though my stomach is still extremely strong, possibly more so than a year ago, you can't tell because of the fucking layer of fat covering it. I just wish I could get a handle on what I put inside my body. It's like, ridiculous because I can cut out meat no problem, eggs no problem, dairy no problem, soy only a slight problem, but for some reason sugar just has a hold on me. And sugar is the number one thing that makes people fat. Why can't I just let it go and stick to it? Why does it always creep back in, practically hours after I commit to giving it up. I just can't stop. I feel totally powerless over my cravings for sugar. Will I ever be normal? Will I ever be non-addicted? I feel like, even if I'm not drinking, drugging, or smoking cigarettes, my brain always attaches itself to something, clings to it and will not let go. How do people free themselves from addictions? I am tired of being ruled by outside sources, things that can never make me happy long-term, only fill a void temporarily, because the void always reappears. It opens back up almost instantly after the damage is done. All that money spent, all those calories ingested, and for what? I don't feel any better. I'm fatter and I have less money. That wouldn't make anyone feel good. I want to treat myself, my body, my money, my future, with respect and love. I want to save money and eat healthily. I want to stop this insanity because that's exactly what is is: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It will never happen. Blonde hair won't make me happy, chocolate won't make me happy, a cheap shirt that I won't even like in two weeks won't make me happy. It's no wonder I have piles and piles of clothes but nothing to wear. What would make me happy is a flat stomach and a savings account full of money. I don't mean that in the superficial way, either, I mean it in the sense that if I have a flat stomach, it's because I'm taking care of my body, and if I have a full savings account, it's because I'm taking care of my financial future. I want to be someone who treats themselves with that kind of love and respect. That's what would make me happy - being congruent with my beliefs. Being vegan is a fantastic start, but I still have a long way to go. I mean, let's be real, here: bleach is NOT vegan.

It's getting harder for me to write lately. I guess because things are going fairly well so I have less to complain about. I still have this underlying fear that HAM is only with me for my money and a place to live, and as soon as he is financially able to move on, he'll go find a younger girl with a bigger butt. He says he loves me, and he says a lot of really sweet things to me, and he's mostly good to me with the occasional making fun of me, but it's never in a mean-spirited way - it's always just playing with me. Even though sometimes I don't like it. So what I mean is, my fear is probably irrational. But then I have this other fear that he really does love me right now, but he'll grow out of this relationship because he's so young and I'll be left close to middle-aged, childless, unmarried, and totally alone. I mean, I suppose it wouldn't be all bad - I could travel to different countries and see the world - something I've always wanted to do. I could move wherever I wanted and I wouldn't have to take anyone else into consideration. I'd probably lose weight because I always lose weight when I'm single. And there are plenty of age-defying tactics available to women these days like botox and whatnot, so I even if I am middle-aged, I don't have to look that way. And sometimes I don't feel 100% happy, because of the teasing. It's really subtle and I'm probably being oversensitive because of past relationships where I was outright abused by men and called horrible names. But I can't talk to him about my past, so if it does bother me, I can't say why. I got him to stop calling me a bird and to stop mimicking my laugh, but he still says other little things...and they are so little I can't even give an example, but I know I don't like how I feel when he says them. But still, that is minor, it's not something to question a relationship over. I love HAM and I want us to stay together. He is absolutely terrified of getting me pregnant. I know he's young and just starting college and it would be terrible timing, and I don't want to have a baby right now either, but I don't think it would be the MOST horrible thing to happen. It would be better than getting Cancer or Aids. Haha, having a baby would be better than contracting AIDS. That's a pretty sad comparison, isn't it? Well, I'm still not sure if I even want to have babies. Part of me thinks, yes, I want kids, a couple, maybe a few, so I have cool adults in my life one day, and someone to take care of me when I'm old. But all that in between time? Like, the baby part would be okay, but then they start to grow and start to develop a personality of their own and then it becomes a neverending battle of wills. Did you go potty? I don't have to go potty. Put your shoes on. I can't find them. You need to wear a coat. I don't want to wear a coat. And then when they get older: You need to be home by eleven. Mom, everyone else's parents let them stay out until midnight! You think you're going out dressed like that? Mom, all the other kids dress like this! You're grounded! I hate you, I wish I was never born! And so on...so basically, I would be okay with a baby, and okay with an adult who lives separately from me, but I don't want a toddler or a teenager or a bitter, resentful 20-something. Can't I just skip all that and just have the good parts of child-rearing? I guess parents think there are more good times than bad, though, and maybe there is something to be said for that. I've never had kids so how would I know how terrible or wonderful it can be? I mean, when I had my dog, he puked every time he went in the car (which was several times a week because of my husband's job), he attacked anything that wasn't human, he was terrified of his own shadow, he was the pickiest eater on the planet, he had horrendous smelling farts, he snored, his breath smelled like rotten poop, and he frequently tried to dry-hump his little sister, but you know what? I loved him no matter what he did, no matter how he smelled or what he ate (he once dug up me and my husband's poop and ate it), no matter how many dogs he attacked, no matter how many times he ran and hid when he heard loud noises, and no matter how many times he puked in the car. I loved him with all my heart. And when he was murdered, my heart broke into a million pieces, never to be fully repaired. So I got his name tattooed on my neck. I loved that dog. I still love that dog. I have a picture of him in my wallet to this day. He was like a child to me, the closest thing I've ever had to a child. So if having children is anything like my relationship with that dog, then I get it. I guess I do get it. Unconditional love.

Lately I don't even know what to write about. I feel like crap today because I drank three beers last night, which was way too much for me. I'm such a lightweight now. There was a time when three beers would've been an appetizer for me. I was drinking like cases of beer back in the day. Well, I don't know if it was really cases, but it was a shit ton of beer, just sucking them down like fruit punch. But now, three beers gets me pretty loopy and feeling like ass the next day. I still went to counseling this morning, then work, then the gym where I did personal training and cardio, and now back to work again. So I'm not fucking up as far as my responsibilities go, but as far as my general well-being, I'm fucking up. It's just not worth it. It's not that fun. For instance, last night, HAM and I were watching the first episode of Mad Men, and int this episode, one of the guys tells his fiancee, "Of course I love you, I'm giving up my life to be with you, aren't I?" This made HAM laugh, so I jumped on him immediately and gave him a hard time the rest of the night for laughing at this guy's joke about marriage being a trade-in for your life. HAM knows I want to get married. Ever since we first met and he asked me what I wanted, I said I wanted to get married. He said he didn't believe in marriage, and he explained to me that he didn't need the government interfering in his personal life. I understand that. I don't need that, either, but I still want to be married. It doesn't have to be legally bound, that's really not the point for me. I just want the commitment. I want him to declare his undying love for me and make a promise to stay with me no matter what. I don't need the court document, I just need the personal statement during a ceremony where I get to wear a pretty dress and there are witnesses, like his mother. So for me, when he jokes about marriage being the end of his life, I take it seriously. I'm a good girl. I'm pretty, funny, smart, and I'm a great cook. I mean, I have my flaws like anyone, but as far as girls go, there's lots of guys who would feel lucky to have me, and I think HAM should want to marry me before someone else tries to steal me away. There's these two guys who work in the same office park as my counselor, and every time I walk by, they always stare at me. Today, they finally decided to say hello to me and I found out that they work for an engineering recruiting firm that allows them to travel to several different countries. They are both young men, fine looking, with careers, and I know they think I'm cute. Of course, I'm not interested in these guys, I love HAM and only want to be with HAM, but the point is, it's not like I'm some loser that no one else would want. I'm attractive to people. And once they finally talk to me, they discover that I'm not a bimbo, I'm actually interesting to talk to and funny and not at all stuck up. I'm someone that guys want to get to know. And HAM is young. He's only 24 and I'm 31, so I worry he's not ready to commit to me, and I could spend years with him waiting for him to want to get married, and in the end he decides he wants more experience or I'm not right for him, and he leaves me when my expiration date has long since passed. In a lot of people's eyes, my expiration date already passed since I'm over 30 (for some men, 25 is the cut off). It's not that I believe in these expiration dates - I think they're offensive - but they're a reality for a lot of people. Women's stock goes down as steadily as men's stock goes up. As men progress throughout their lives, working their way up corporate ladders or what have you, they continue to increase their value to the opposite sex, meanwhile, women get older and accumulate more fat, wrinkles, and gray hair, making them less and less valuable with every passing day. It is sad, but it is a fact that cannot be denied and it is true in almost every culture. Men are visual creatures and they desire beautiful women. It may not be all that matters, but the fact is, it does matter. HAM loves the way I look today. He loves my big butt and small waist, he loves my makeup and hair and he loves my tan and nails. I can keep up a lot of this stuff, but there is the inevitable aging process that will change the shape of my body, turn my hair gray, and produce fine lines and wrinkles on my face. I want him to love me enough to love me when I'm old. I want him to look at me and not just see a hot chick with a nice ass, but I beautiful woman who he wants to grow old with, who he loves so much that I would be beautiful to him no matter how many years have passed or how many gray hairs I have. I have been with people who have said they felt that way about me before, and I don't really know if it was true or not, but I know there are some men out there who truly love their middle-aged or elderly wives, and I think I deserve a man that loves me that much, too. A man who doesn't see my gray hair or wrinkles, but sees the real me and thinks I'm amazing, stunning, and the only girl he'd ever want. That's how I see him. I imagine him twenty years from now, HAM the man instead of HAM the baby. I see him being just as sexy, if not more so. I see him always being the guy I want to be with more than anyone else in the world, no matter if he develops a gut or stays in perfect shape. Whether he loses his pretty blonde hair or keeps it. I don't care, because I love him as a person, not as a good-looking person. I've never even been with a good-looking guy before I met him. All my boyfriends were toothless, fat, or bald. Or all three. I don't care about looks on a man. I care more about their sense of humor than anything else. I need someone who makes me laugh, and who thinks I'm funny, too. HAM does that, too. He thinks men are always funnier than women, as I've mentioned before, but he does think I'm funny, and I think he's funny, too. But I do have this fear that he'll only love me as long as I'm pretty, and one day if I'm not pretty enough, he'll either stay with me out of obligation but long for someone younger and more attractive, or he'll just leave me. Because when I met him I was physically perfect and since then I've gained like seven pounds. My stomach isn't perfectly flat anymore and I've had months of being pale instead of tan, or I've been too poor to afford to get my nails done so they grow out and look ratty for a while. I'm just afraid how I look is extremely important to him because I looked perfect when he met me and he's really into physical appearance. He loves Katy Perry and he was totally into the idea of my getting breast implants (which didn't pan out partly because of cost, and partly because I read all of the literature that they give you when you go in for a consultation and it scared the crap out of me). Katy Perry has those giant milky globes and I have just slightly more than a twelve-year-old. I often joke that I should shop in the training bra section. So I don't know, maybe I'm just insecure, as my counselor says. I know I'm insecure, but I don't think it's all in my head, I think HAM really has an aversion to unattractive women and wouldn't want me if I was fat or ugly. And I can control fat, and I'm not ugly, but I can't stop time. I will get old, I have no say in the matter. I just hope he'll fall more in love with me and see me as beautiful as I get older instead of just old. I know I have an expiration date, I just hope he'll still want to drink me once I've gone sour.