You Can't Have Any Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat.

So, I've been having these 'weeks' lately, where all I truly want to do is eat.

It doesn't really matter what it is; as long as it won't bite me back and it's relatively chewable and passable, I'm down for it.

I know I'm not pregnant. I've been relatively regular with the monthly red bandit, so there's no chance.

I guess the only thing I can attribute it to, legitimately, anyway, is PMS, DMS and AMS (you know how that goes: pre-, during- and after-).

I don't know what the deal is. But I'm really, really not comfortable with it. I'm starting to wonder if I have an eating compulsion, an eating disorder that hides its ugly head deep, deep in my tummy (or my head, maybe?) and insists that I eat eat eat despite the fact that I'm just not hungry.

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe I'm just bored. Or stressed. I don't really know. There's obviously something going on up (or down) in there.

I know... I know that if I don't cut the crap out, I'm going to start gaining weight. And then I'm really going to hate myself. Not because I think women should be cookie-cutter (mmm, cookies, I'd love some cookies, thanks) thin and everyone should look the same; I don't. But I do know what my standards are of myself and if I were to go beyond that, it'd be out of sheer laziness and general pigging out.

I wish I were twelve again, when I could eat whatever the hell I wanted and not have to worry about the repercussions of bloat, breakout and guilt.