For a minute, it's just like, 'what the fuck is this?'I mean, really.
How do you eat it? With a spoon? Like, with a fork and knife or some shit?
Oh yeah. Your hands.
[i don't know why i'm thinking about them. i haven't had one in months.] )
(2I'm told we're only as sick as our secrets. If that's true, I'm terminal.)
I've been trying to eat more. I try for meals. Two, at least. I stopped having oatmeal for breakfast and green beans for lunch a while ago, switching it out for tea with an Equal and diet colas. I've started having the oatmeal again today. Two tablespoons (37.5) in a bowl, with 3/4 cup of water, a shake of cinnamon (0), and two Equals (8). I feel a little shamed though, because I only ate it to avoid what my mother wanted me to eat. I worried about hot chocolate and french toast with syrup, about a tall glass of orange juice and soup bowls filled with sugar-y purple cereal, and whatever other horrors she could command to march out the fridge and cupboards. For lunch I make a sandwich, shove it in a teacup in the corner of my room and return the dirty plate. Diet Pepsi is better than lunch and snack. Tea is better than breakfast. Tea and Diet Pepsi are both better than dinner, too.
When I'm finally dizzy and my stomach won't be sated by anything liquid, I creep out of my room and into the kitchen, pull out the pan from under the cupboard. A glass dish falls towards my foot, and I nearly fall over trying to avoid it. It still smashes into the edge of my toenail. I shake seasoned salt into water, and reach to cut half an onion into that. I have to hurry before I decide I'm not actually hungry at all, just weak. Before the knife can come out of the drawer and the onion and bell pepper out of the fridge, mom tells me she has a headache and that the smell of my soup would hurt her head. I sink were I stand. I'm so hungry. It's not that I want the food, it's just that I want to be able to say I ate something between the time the sun came up and the sun went down. When I ate last ate was barely light out.
It's been an hour now, and I don't want to make soup anymore. If I don't make soup, something will be made for me though. Lovely tofu bathed in filty, bready crumbs, with bloody ketchup on the side. Slimy pasta, drowning crisp vegetables into submission under thick sauce. Greasy pizza with nothing good in it, ordered from a take out place or risen from a frozen dinner.
It's exactly 07:00pm now, I think it's safe to start cooking. If I start now I can eat at 08:00pm, and eat a pickle (20) at 09:00pm before anyone offers me anything.
When I leave my
I hate mustard. It makes me sick. I can imagine what would happen if my parents read this, found it in my secondary email under a different name, and opened the document under 's'. I'd be slammed behind steel doors and fat nurses,locked away for 1000 years. When my
The day is over calorie-wise as far as I'm concerned.
My stomach is going to drown under all the food. It's sitting on
2 tablespoons of oatmeal (37.5)
3 Equals (12)
1 shake cinnamon (0)
1 cup tea (0)
3 cups Diet Pepsi (4.2)
2 slices white bread without crusts and some of the bread (135, from 140 before)
1 original Boca patty (70)
1/2 tablespoon mustard (gagging, misery. oh, and 1.5 calories)
1 pickle (20).
I wanted 50, 100, 150 tops for the day. It's too muchmuchmuchmuch, and I'm going to die. I swear. I am. My stomach hurts so bad. I'd rather go without eating anything for 39241094810 years and 22(.04) seconds. I'd rather exercise for eighteen hours straight without water. I'd rather have my toe nails ripped off, my stomach dissected, my skin carved to shreds than eat 210.2 calories in one day.
It gets worse. It's a nightmare.
Not even an hour later, mom orders pizza.
I'm going to throw myself off a bridge one of these days. Or run away. Or lock myself in a steel box and swallow the key
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