Hey, man. Have you sexy-health-checked your squeeze today? You could saving a life (this was a typo, but I like it so much that I’m leaving it in).
Join me as I flip back through my Mental Scrapbook of Deceased Friendships. It’s not creepy or weird at all! It’s got tea-stained decals on, look!
In any enclosed space outside my home – the train to my boyfriend’s house; the bus to my bar job - the world would pulse and warp, and a tremendous dam of nausea would build up inside me until I’d either faint, or be trapped inside a terrible vertiginous inertia.
I write about the four years I spent as a housebound agoraphobic with severe panic disorder in my early twenties - and subsequent recovery - for xoJane.
Plus I manage to crowbar in references to Whitesnake, Yoda, and shitting yourself. Hooray!
My VLCD has come to an end, so this is my final xoJane EXTREME DIETRY entry. I’ve basically lost the equivalent of two Maine Coons, but I’ve found my courage. Or something.
Look, it’s about a diet.
One afternoon I’m standing by the mirror with my T-shirt hoiked up, pensively poking the ever-shrinking empty pouch of my belly, and it hits me: there are only three weeks left of my diet.
THE EXTREME DIETRY OF ROBYN WILDER: WEEK 8
By me, for xoJane.