Becoming a free Bitch/ A love letter to gaga

On March 1, 2011 a mere six days after I get back from New York, (sidenote: IM GOING TO NEW YORK FUCKING CITY!!!!! I'M FINALLY GETTING OUT OF HERE!), I'm going to see Lady Gaga. It will be epic. She will be on my fucking turf! She will see *my* sights, and hear *my* sounds. SHE WILL BE LIKE TEN MINUTES FROM THE HAUS OF ROSIE! It's gonna be so wierd. I've never had anyone this famous so close. And she's coming right from Chicago, which means she'll probably take the route that I've traveled around 14000 times in the last fourteen years.  And she'll probably pass Chesterton, and that obnoxiously huge billboard for a porn store that always lets me know we're in Indiana, and that random panera, which is classy  but not *too* classy. Oh and she'll pass that sketchy taco bell/kfc combo truck stop thing that I always think I'll get mugged by a trucker in! Can you tell I'm excited?!

Anyway, apparently her show is supposed to be part exorcisim, and part massive party. It's supposed to liberate from all your monsters and skeletons and burdens. But the thing is, I don't think Gaga can clear up all my self doubt and whatnot, so I decided to work on this whole concept of "body fat is okay" and "you don't suck that bad" before I go to her show. Because if I meet Gaga after her show at 4.A.M, I don't want to come to her as this insecure neurotic, stick skinny, mess of insecurities sobbing and thanking her for saving me. I want to come to her as a monster who is okay with being one, and instead of telling her how she saved me, I want to tell her how she slapped me in the face and forced me to save myself.

I've always had wierd wieght and food issues. Lady Gaga said her main monsters are her fears of love, sex, and alcohol. My "monster" is a singular thing, food. I have always hated food. When I was eleven I got this insane flu type thing, I spent the whole night in bed begging god to just please make me puke it all up. The next day, it occured to me that it wasn't my immune system, or my lack of sleep that did this to me, it was food. In my little eleven year old mind I somehow conjured up the idea that if I didn't eat, I wouldn't get sick. So that's what I did, I stopped eating and took tiny little bird bites of food. I remember eating miniture bites of key lime yogurt, and peanut butter toast. I remember staring at myself in the mirror, topless. I remember seeing my flat chest, and every single one of my ribs poking through my pale translucent skin, and running my hands up and down them. I remember being less than sixty pounds.

Now eventually things got better, and I actually remembered that food was good. But most of it has never gone away. Shortly after I lost the wieght, I gained like ten pounds. I had no idea what to do, what were these things called "thighs"? Why is there a thin layer of *fat* on my stomach? These questions trouble me day to day, as I pierouette in the mirror and turn to see if you can see my shoulder blades.  So now, thanks to Gaga, I'm going to attempt to be a little less neurotic, and  a bit more of a free bitch. I'm going look in the mirror without pinching my thighs, or at least, try.