I've been asking Aaron obsessively if I've lost any weight. I lift up my shirt and say, "Is it smaller?" I poke at the chub and ask, "Is it less smooshy?" He refuses to tell me and says that it doesn't count if I didn't lose it the right way and he won't be proud of me for losing weight unless I'm exercising and eating healthily. Which I am not. He still refuses to let me buy a scale and looks disturbed when I try on dresses that used to be a little too tight and are now a little too loose.
It's not me, it's the lack of teeth in my mouth though, so it's ok that I've lost a few pounds in the past few days and I guess it's ok that I'm obsessing over how much I've lost?
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To be a bankable writer, you have to be a good storyteller; the problem with me is, writing come naturally. Grammar, spelling, all of that stuff -- I don't have to think about it. But I'm a horrible storyteller, and that's the part of the equation that has to be instinctual. You can't teach someone to have a sense of irony. I don't believe in taking creative writing classes; either you can write a short story or you can't. I know this isn't true, that those classes are often immensely beneficial, but this is what I tell myself to justify not persuing a career in writing. If no one else sees what I've written, no one can tell me I suck. It's a risk I'm not willing to take.
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Time for more broth! Mmm mmm good.