2013-11-27 / 6:38 p.m.

Here I am making Christmas lists again. Santa's bringing me a watch and an iPhone 5 and hopefully nothing else because I don't know how to be an ungrateful little shit. The cat lies at the end of my bed most days and sometimes I treat her like I treat the dogs. I push her around a little like she might want to play, but she never really does. I feel like a cat in a dog's world. I want to sleep and to dream and to show the world how I can lick my wounds but somehow I almost always fall short. I feel delicate and almost entirely out of control. Here we are again. Over a week ago I found out that I've contracted HPV. At the time, it was the hardest pill to swallow. Shit. I'm ruined. Nobody'll want me now. But today, I find myself applying that real harsh ointment, washing my hands and just getting on with things. Boyfriend thinks I had it first. I think he did. But we're not playing the blame game, at least not now. He got away without any symptoms. I'm paying for having protected sex and keeping my legs closed. I don't see what the point was. I still feel like a whore. I'm in the midst of writing my thesis about fat women, and photographing myself naked. I projected my flabby folds onto a gigantic screen last week and my tutor wondered if really, what I'm getting at is some conversation about my own mental health. I sometimes hide underneath towels you know. I can't see anybody or anything and somehow it makes me feel better about my flabby folds and my weird sounding disease and my cardiac issues and my damning anxiety and all of that everything. I don't know where to go from here. I'm up in a heap. I don't know how to read or write anymore.