It's just out of the frying pan and into the fire, isn't it? I can't control my academic situation, I can't control my financial situation, I can't control my fuck-ugly wardrobe, I can't control my fuck-ugly face, I can't control my family, I can't control who wants to be my friends, I can't control so much, and so I try to control my body. My body, disabled and bisected and acne-riddled and bruise-covered and bug bite-marked and unevenly coloured. Under my influence, I can change its weight. It's something. But then when I change its shape, it shifts back in the same day to that unflattering soft rectangle shape, and I can't eat food, and I can't eat food, and I can't eat food. I'm chasing my own tail. I'm walking a circular groove into the ground.