Super size me! (please?)

Listening to: 'Stronger' by Kanye West [Graduation]

I'm pretty sure that anyone and everyone who's ever seen me has, at some point during our acquaintance, commented on my size (or lack thereof). The most popular comments include:

• Don't you eat? (and then their jaws drop when they see my plate)
• Where does it all go? I'm so jealous!
• Have you been to see a doctor?

Sigh. For heaven's sake, look at my mother. Look at my father. Is there any way I could be curvy? The genes wouldn't allow it.

So anyway, I'm scarily underweight. I do eat, more than most in fact. And I have no idea where it all goes. And I have been to see my doctor, and she assures me that there's nothing medically wrong with me. I've even been to a dietician, who had no sensible suggestions (I don't consider spending almost £10 a week on dietary supplements a 'sensible' suggestion). I'd love to put on a few kilos. I accept that I'll probably remain underweight, but hopefully by a little less than I am right now. So I delve into the treasure trove that is the internet, to get some inspiration. Good idea, right?

Wrong. It appears that the majority of net-savvy females are obsessed with losing weight, not gaining it. Most web entries related to good health harp on about low-calorie diets and other weight reduction methods. And almost all web entries related weight gain are directed towards body builders. And for anyone who wants to increase body fat, no chance! (I was gonna say 'fat chance' but decided that would be too lame)

I'm trying to over eat. I don't mean gluttony, I mean a systematic increase in daily intake. I'm trying to join a gym, but the gym needs a medical certificate authorising post-surgical exercise, and my GP has referred me to an orthopaedic specialist...and thanks to the 'wonderful' NHS, I'll find out the date of my appointment in about a month's time (yes, they take a month to tell me how long I have to wait to be seen).

Until then, I have to be satisfied with being likened to a stick insect.

Dreams are for kids: Confessions of a Realist, maybe

Listening to: 'Hey There Delilah' by Plain White T's [All That We Needed]

When you were little, you dreamt you'd be superwoman. You'd graduate at the top of your class, get the most amazing job ever, marry the most amazing guy ever, have the most wonderful kids (three: girl, boy, girl) and pets (two dogs: most probably Labradors) anyone could wish for. Your family would be nearby, and they would be proud. You'd be popular, and all your friends would be sincere. You'd be beautiful and your house would be heavenly.

And then your grandmother died. You failed a paper at school. You started getting pimples. The first guy you liked found out, and laughed at you. You found out one of your friends wasn't really a friend at all. But hey, you were still young, everything would be fine.

Years later, you've sorted some of your issues out. Your parents miles away, but they are proud. You don't expect your grandparents to live forever. You're managing OK (read: hanging on for dear life) at university. You have a few amazing friends. But you still have pimples, and now you realise how different your body looks to everyone else's, and you wonder if you're a freak. You're still waiting for some guy - any guy - to like you. You wonder what'll happen if you never get married. You wonder what'll happen if you can't have kids. House prices are so high that when the time comes, you'll probably have to rent a flat in the dodgy part of town.

Those dreams you had when you were younger are all but shattered. Your imperfections have ruined your perfect future. If this is what it's like to be mature, then dreams are definitely for kids.