I like February. I don't understand why February gets such a bad rap. Valentine's Day is in February. My brother's birthday is in February. I got a tattoo in February. I lost my virginity in February. (TMI, let's move on.)

When February isn't great, it's at least interesting. For example: I blacked out from drinking during the worst day of my life...in February! And surely an anecdote of that stature is worth something.

But the greatest thing about February is that it always contains Fireball, my college's formal dance. For good or ill, Fireball is always the social high point of my winter. This year is a return to 1996-style, as I only have one date. Hopefully this year the Boy will be less prone to wandering -- last year I saw him for a total of 15 minutes during the damn thing. Huff.

Summary: February hoorah! Fireball hoorah!

My mental state is governed by 2 powerful emotions: weariness & self-loathing. At the moment I'm too tired to bitterly resent the way I look, which I think is a good thing. My self-esteem never quite bounced back from all the skinny counselors at camp. Part of it is that my life doesn't make me feel attractive. I do what I must in order to make money for the next (hopefully more fulfilling) stage. In the meantime I don't sleep enough, spend little time with my friends and use some of the new cash to buy junk food; a self-indulgence that corrects a bit of my rampant dissatisfaction. I never have to walk anywhere, and my time is so constricted that I'm often out of energy before I can do anything positive....like exercise.

Hence: gut. Hence: self-hatred.

An unpleasant topic to be sure. I wish there was some pill I could take to dissolve my self-loathing. That would be far more useful than a rowing machine.