Two things:
- A girl’s issues with food are no different than her issues with her body, her daddy, her mommy, her intelligence, her personhood, or the priest who coached her 6th grade soccer team… if there are buttons wired to her clit, I’ll push ‘em. I’ll push them so the little clicks the buttons make play a tune, and I can sing along with it in her ear.
- But if she’s looking for someone to rubber-stamp —or actively encourage— the slo-mo destruction of her body, one anxious, obsessive, hollow-eyed day at a time, she’s come to the wrong station of her particular cross. Girls who belong to me are expected to be marginally-competent stewards of my property… I don’t expect them to keep the farm working all by themselves, but I don’t expect them to burn down the barn when my back is turned, either. I’m not interested in short-term things, so I need them to be more than pretty… I need them to be sustainably so. It’s a lot of hard work, really, but I’m told I’m worth it.