They told me I could be anything I wanted to be.
An aspiring perfectionist.
I finished school with the best of grades and the best of friends.
Controlled and cautious.
University arrived last year as a blur of new faces, places and experiences.
I started to question what I wanted to do.
Do I want to spend the rest of my life doing biology?
It isn’t my passion.
I’m barely struggling through, telling myself that if I fail again it will be okay.
If I fail again I can write or cook for a living.
Because my passion lies in food and literature, yes?
Creating the delicate art that is food, and putting sensitive words to the messed up world around me.
That’s what I will tell them when they ask why I have failed; wasted myself.
But I will be lying to them.
For every penny I spend on words, I will spend a thousand pounds on ridding myself of this greedy demon, forcing me to eat the calories which sicken and bloat me.
What’s the point?
I don’t care if my talents live on the backburner.
I only aspire to be thin.