...though it's still about me. No... Today it's about my friend, my dear friend, since the moment I asked 'czyje to są strachy na lachy' almost seven years ago. So, the ones who know who I'm talking about knows, the rest... the rest... no need to know, as story is kind of... popular, I'd say, among girls.
...so my friend, though she's little girl in the kitchen, doesn't eat any more. Don't exaggerate, Mazur. She's eating. Your fave food from over-year-ago. Porridge. Porridge, which means water and few swimming oat flakes inside. She's in fainting point. She's unable to eat after 6. She's generally unable to eat without feeling, that she's getting huge, fat, round, ball like, awful... And in the same time, though she doesn't admit, she's pretty excited about being so exciting for others. For him. But not only. For whole grono of people, it's allusion, illusion... so my friend is in the border point.
It's not A., yet. It's all about B. It's always about B., everything about us is about B. That's why I know, sorry, my friend, don't be mad at me, but I thing I may say that I now where You are now. I've been there. And all I know is that there's no way to help You, unless You help Yourself. Others can make it easier (You know, I wish he was there, too, I really wish he was there, with You, not here), but others can make it tougher too. When You see how they look at You now You don't want to get better. Or worse in Your eyes.
And, You see, I could tell You all this in mail or something. That I'm worried. That You should start to eat normally. That You're ruining Your health. All of this true-but-crap. But in fact I'd like to tell You, that You've been there too. And that probably I'll be there one day again. Because it's fucking B. everywhere. I just wish You'll start the way back, to the opposite border, before You reach A. Wish. Cause it's all one can do. One - You. It's entirely up to You. It's Your hand scratching Your throat and it's Your head, the only place in which You're fat.
