I'm a blood bag now. My only purpose is blood, blood from cuts, blood from mouth, blood from my ass. I'm a balloon ready to pop and paint the room red.
People say it's a disease and not to glamourize it. It's not a disease, last time I checked. It's not a virus that sprends when you brush hip(bones) with a thin girl on the bus, or something you contract when you breathe in the smell of an open magazine too deeply. Last time I checked it was a disorder, something missing or something too much in your brain. Maybe that's a lie too. Maybe it really is a disease we all caught from kissing skeletons somewhere at the turn of the century. Since then, the virus has festered in us.
I've been seeing friends again lately. I've crawled out of my hole and the sunlight tans my skin a little. People don't believe me when I say this is the darkest I've been in my life, because they insist I am porcelain.
Saturday, I went to the movies. We saw Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland. It was fantastic. It was a surprise, they covered my eyes while we walked into the theather room. I squealed when the title came up on the black screen. Before the movie, we got lunch at a little cafe. There were slices of pizza the size of my head and bowls of pasta that could fill my belly x20. There were salads and sugar-free sports drinks in a glass viewing case. There was a green salad with shredded cheese, a huge salad of every vegetable on the planet with too much tomato, and crunchy white leaved ones with sliced cucumbers. I'd be critized if I only ate a salad, so I ordered a side salad and a small bagel. They asked me what dressing I wanted, and then handed me about six tablespoons worth in a plastic cup. My bagel was toasted, an ounce of cream cheese in a seperate packet. I salad down, poured one tablespoon of Italian (50) on my salad, picked out the onions and the tomatos, and shoved a mouthful of lettuce in my talking mouth with a plastic fork. Small salad = 20. Dressing = 50. 1/2 small bagel = 100. 1/2 ounce full fat cream cheese = 40. Lunch (210). Then I swallow half a drink (50), before carting off again.
In the thether, I try to remind myself this is fun. I love anything Alice in Wonderland, anything Tim Burton. And I am trilled. But the popcorn is driving me mad. Being asked if I want any is driving me mad. I eat two un-buttered, salty handfuls (?. guilt.) from the bottom of the bag, and take sips of sugar-y soda. It's really sweet. I'm not ruining this weekend. It is fun and I am loved and I love this. Still, I feel like my stomach will pop open. I'm not used to lunch and snacks and sugar.
The movie was fantastic. I laughed and grinned and was normal for a while.
After the movies, I cart off to Arwen's. She's having a party and wants me to sleep over. Kim is there when I arrive.
On the way there, I cry in the backseat. My pants are tight. I'm fat. I ate. I broke a base rule and can't even punish myself.
Kim is slim and curvy, in jeans and a striped top. I'm borderline distracted by the low cut. Arwen is boxom and pretty, in a bright top and worn jeans. Everyone is smiles when I get there, including me. The tears are gone and I'm happy again.
Arwen made pizza, cheese for me and Kim; the vegetarians. I stare as two pieces are dished out on a paper plate. I peel off the cheese, wipe off the sauce, and eat half a slice. I wrap the rest in the napkin, throw it away, and put my untouched piece back on the pizza tray. After that, I'm handed a piece of fudge. When everyone is on their 3rd pieces, I'm still nibbling at my first and it's melting on my fingers. An hour later, I look at Kim. "I don't think I'm ever going to finish this. Want it?" Kim stares at me as if I'm mad. "Uh, yeah!" She kneels forward before I can hand it to her, holds my wrist, and snatches it from my fingers with her teeth, then licks the rest off my index and middle finger. I giggle at her teeth scraping me. Arwen laughs. "I wish I had a camera that worked," she says. "You're such a pedo," I tell her, suddenly breathless from a little laughing. "Hey! It's not myyyy fault that you two are insanely hot and I happen to have turned eighteen." "Almost nineteen," I remind Arwen, grinning.
We curl up on the couch after most of the guests have left, except for a few people passed out here and there. I walk around and drink what's left in cups and shotglasses. I don't care about the calories at this point, I just want to forget how much I've eaten.
A drunk guy snatches my sketchbook, flips through it. "Damn, you drew these?" I nod. My head is spinning. "How old are you?" I consider lying. "Fourteen." His eyebrows raise. "Oh, damn. My top is eighteen. But still, these are awesome. Draw me." I laugh loudly. He's wasted and I'm dizzy and tired. "No, seriously. If you did all these, draw me." After he argues with me for a while, I draw him. He swoons over his drawn image, swoons over me, and falls asleep. I go back to Arwen and Kim and watch more movies and eat more fudge and laugh too loudly. The bites sneak into my mouth, because it's not my hand feeding me.
I leave in the morning, come home, drink some water, brush my teeth, and pass out for a few hours. I didn't drink much, but my tolerance has changed. I'm not a drinker. I don't take my parents bottles from the cabinets, I don't steal from convince stores. No one ever asks me to drink. I have half a glass of something with family friends or scrounge people's leftovers sometimes. It's rare but it happens.
Now that my deathly weekend is over, I'm empty and haven't eaten yet. Or drinken much. I see signs of dehydration, but it's a bit of an effort to force anything down my throat. This weekend it hurt to lie down because of how full I was. A sip of water hurts nearly as much.
I'm whining again, whining and stupid.
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