Nothing Tastes As Good As Cam Gigandet Feels

I am good at doing two things.

I am really really good at pouring the exact right amount of water into a rice cooker on the first try. This helped me in AP chemistry and Orgo to a certain extent. Mostly it helps me make really really good mixed drinks.

I am also really really good at losing weight fast. One time when I was 13, I got pneumonia and lost 15 pounds in two weeks because the only thing I ate the entire time was a clementine. When I came back to school, my friends formed a group and went to the counselor because they were worried that I was anorexic. To this day, the thought that somebody would believe that I was anorexic still flatters me and makes me smile.

My crash-break-up-crash-diet comes pretty close. So far, I've lost 17 pounds in three weeks. I don't know if it's the euphoria of being skinny or the lack of nutrients reaching my brain, but I am swooning with satisfaction.

Before you point your finger and warn me about the perils of depression, realize that is not the case here. Usually when I'm depressed I eat a ton of Chinese takeout, lie absolutely motionless in bed, and watch America's Next Top Model marathons for DAYS. Wendy from Shanghai Cafe and Tyra Banks are literally my therapists. So I don't really know what the motivation for this sudden weight loss is. My parents think it's because I have a new girlfriend, *giggle*. But I just want to look good. Mostly, to win over a new boyfriend. (Cam Gigandet, if you are reading this, I'm available.) Subconsciously, I'm sure, to get the old one back. 

On top of the diet, I've also been going to the gym 5-6 times a week. Mostly, to build muscle. Subconsciously, I'm sure, to snare a bro. The second part hasn't really worked. Gay college guys don't go to the gyms. They are still "figuring themselves out" or whatever.

Side Note: On every single treadmill there is a little red sign warning about "Exercise Bulimia" because February was National Eating Disorder Month and nobody bothered to take them off.

Working out to purge a meal? Check
Working out more than 45 minutes more than 5 times a week? Check
Exercising instead of spending time with friends? Check
Feeling guilty for not working out? Check

I was at a bar last week, dancing my heart out, when one of those "happy to be alive" gays with those really broad smiles that reveal all 32 teeth came up to me and told me I was a really good dancer. Then he just stood there, expecting me to give him a lapdance for telling me something I already know. I said, "My girlfriend thinks so too," and I pointed to an Asian girl in the crowd that I've never met before.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I didn't look terrible to begin with and I've found most of the changes have been subtle. But considering how vain and narcissistic gay people are, it has definitely made a difference. Even so, the new found attention doesn't give me the satisfaction that I thought it would. I still feel as if no matter what I look like, it will never be enough. And I will eternally have another 17 pounds to go.

I Don't Eat Solid Food, I'm Single Again

One of the worst parts of ending a secret relationship is when people who kind of knew about the both of us all along ask, "Why isn't Tall Blonde Alcoholic here with you?" I have to come up with a way of saying, "I don't know what he's up to and I don't give a fuck," without sounding too vitriolic.

I also have to suppress the urge to tell people how idiotic I feel. For the past six months, I've been taken for granted while he chased memories of his friends from his summer internship and made new friends outside of our circle. I was the one left alone all the times he felt like he'd rather be with his engineering friends. I sat in my room alone the night of our one-year anniversary because he was doing an assignment he had procrastinated on for a week. He didn't even make any effort to see me on his birthday, opting to go to a friend's friend's apartment instead and asking me if wanted to tag along.

Meanwhile, he and his gay summer roommate who lives in Miami have the same profile picture of the two of them together. His spring break plans, which I was conveniently not included in, happened to put him in, not only Miami, but in his gay summer roommate's apartment. If that wasn't enough, I distinctly remember a text from the gay summer roommate asking him, "Are you gay?" And I'm pretty sure that, "because I want to have sex," was where that conversation was going. I suppose I will never understand his desire for his gay summer roommate, who lives thousands of miles away, to keep him warm at night when I was in front of his face all this time. But they are both moving to the same area in New Jersey next year. So that question more or less resolves itself.

My belief is that if he really wanted our relationship to work he could have put forth the effort. But he couldn't, and more importantly, he didn't want to. I've spent weeks considering how I was going to tiptoe around discussing the breakup so as to not make myself seem like a self-absorbed and embittered victim. But I honestly consider the demise of our relationship less my failure than his. Either he was too spineless to tell me he didn't love me or he was too selfish to care about anybody's happiness but his own. 

But the unbearable unfairness sets in when I realize that all his shit ends up placing him in a position to move on, finally do what he wants to do, and be with the people he wants to be with. And I, the one who is theoretically better off without him, am the one who is alone, without anywhere to go on spring break.

I would liken being single again after a long relationship to going through physical therapy. More than not enjoying being alone, I don't know how to be alone. I feel like I have to relearn how to function without the constant companionship and support of another person. For the most part, I've grown accustomed to eating alone in my apartment. I've accepted only being able to share my witty comments to my pathetic followers on Twitter. [Just kidding. I love you all. Follow me here, here, and here.] The one thing I have yet to get used to is lying alone in bed at night. That is when I feel the most lonely, exposed, and vulnerable to the girl from The Ring. 

Previously, three days of debilitating loneliness was my limit and I inevitably went crawling back [I did this twice] under the false hope that things would be different [they never were]. This time, instead of waiting for him to change, I think it's time for me to change. This is the part where I flip my curly, blonde hair back and walk down the streets of Manhattan, alone yet triumphant a la Carrie Bradshaw. In reality, this will probably involve more, "Table for one, please," and spending Friday nights rabidly refreshing my Twitter page. The triumphant and liberating feelings have yet to materialize. 

After all this, I still feel like there is more to say, but I can't put into words how crushing it feels to listen to him tell me that I'm not worth the effort when I see him doing it for other people all the time. The most painful aspect is that he was the best thing I've ever had; having him made me feel lucky despite my otherwise shitty life. But he ended up disappointing me more than anybody ever has before.

I never thought I'd be in this position during the last semester of college. As time runs out, I feel like all the pieces of my life are falling away, leaving me without any plan for the future, without anybody to turn to, and without an understanding of who I am anymore.