crash&burn.

   I am high. I am creative.

   It's five am and I don't need sleep. I'm up and down, all night, pouring myself out onto paper with pen one moment, then pouring my contents into the trash bin the next.

   I don't need sleep, I don't need food, and the slow burn of stomach acid in my throat is exquisite, like burbon.

   I draw all night, a light turned on, because I am near essential. I am pure, the clawing in my stomach is the feeling of an empty vessel. When I'm this way, I need myself on paper so I can remember it.

   At 5:17am I get up and walk all around the house, in circles, as fast as I can without creaking the floor boards (fat bitch hear those moaning boards it's because you're fat). I go for exactly 32 minutes, walking ridiculously, flailing my arms and legs, convinced that the extra calories burned from walking this way are worth it.

   I lay down at 7:36am, stare at my cat for a while, and sleep until 12pm. When I wake up, no one's home. I think I remember them leaving. I might. I might not.

   When my eyes open, I switch into drive, walk into the kitchen, burn a piece of toast so the kitchen smells of it, then shake some of its crumbs on a plate before I flush the slice down the toilet. I return to the plate, and smear a little bit of peanut butter on the side of the plate. That's what I would've liked to have this morning; peanut butter toast. So it looks as if I did.

   Afterwards, I run for a while, walk more, and take the last of my newest diet pills. Diet pills, Diet Coke, soup, and laxative tea. That's what the next 71 days will be.

    Tonight, I have 78 calories of vegetable soup waiting for me. Until then, I'm pure.