crash&burn.

I feel like shit.
Slice open a fat potato, slather the insides with butter and cheese, wrap in tin foil, pop in microwave. Fidget. It won’t be done for 30 more minutes. Musteatmusteatmusteat. I fidget, say nonono, but the answer is yes, is always yes, and I microwave a pastry. Then I eat peanut butter and crackers, granola bars, a grilled cheese sandwich I make on the stovetop. Beepbeepbeeppotatoisdone. Slice it completely open, top with more butter and cheese, shovel in fast even though it burns the roof of my mouth. Drink some berry flavoured juice, a lot of water, suck on ice cubes.
Mom’s in the bathroom and purging in ziplocks in my closet is one of my least favourite things to do. “I’m going on a walk,” I yell, jog out, fling open the gate, purge in the muckheap behind the stable. When I straighten, feeling much emptier, I look up and the horse is watching me with large eyes filled with intelligence. I kick some manure over my mess, and go over to pat him on the neck. “Hey boy.”
Go to town next. Stop at a stuffy, smelly little dinner with badly drawn cartoon characters painted all over the windows. Order bananas foster French toast. Side of eggs. Side of hash browns. Suck down full sugar sodas and nervously claw at the edges of the table while waiting. Nanananannafoodnananananneatnanananananananna. Food plops down on table, eatfastbitch. Feel too full but on the way home stop for cheap chocolate covered malts and at a fast food place for a chocolate shake. fidgetfidgetfidget, purge.
Finally, go to psychiatrist appointment.
“How are you doing?”
“Good!”
Liar liar liar.

I hate this.