Envy. The little green monster. Green, the color of lettuce. The only thing I eat anymore. I was always jealous of his body. Always. How can you be friends with the boy who seemed to be so skinny without any effort? He was rail thin. He was coveted. He was wanted.
And all I ever wanted were those things. I just wanted everything he had.
Unfortunately the only thing I picked up from him was an eating disorder. I know someone can't give you bulimia, but they can sure hurry the process along. He whispered to me how he skipped meals, and I witnessed him leaving the bathroom after meals, smelling of acid. Cigarettes kill urges. I learned all the tips from him. Drink water. Don't buy food. Work out. Avoid meals. I learned from the best. He who does not want to recover.
Let me tell you a secret though, I don't either.
I will never be thin enough. I tell myself at the start that when I lose ten pounds I will be happy. So in two weeks I lose ten pounds. No big deal. I just followed the guru. But guess what? I felt hollow. Only ten pounds, that's nothing. It wasn't even ten percent of my body weight. It was nothing. I looked the same. I felt the same. The only difference is I went down a pants size. I couldn't see it though. I still felt like the same girl as when I started.
But now I was a failure. Now I wasn't good enough. Now food seemed sinful. I always thought about becoming an extremist religion where the people beat themselves so I could get away with cutting and scratching without being wrong. It seemed like a perfect fit. But now with the starving, how would I explain that? Lent. For Lent (which I don't really celebrate) I will give up food. Beat that you pious bastard. So what you gave up caffeine or liquor? I'm giving up food. For forty days.
But Lent isn't year around, and even my thin friend eats occasionally. But somewhere, in the sick reaches of my mind, I want win. I want to be the thinnest. Little miss perfect with the sharp collar bones.
I don't want recovery. I want thin.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Prince
Girls painted like princess danced across the floor. Their dresses swept the ground, fluttering up and down in a breeze of graceful movements.
One girl sat, left ankle tucked behind her right, with her back to the pristine floral wallpaper. She watched the others waltz around, heels sliding them into their boys arms.
Lucy was alone.
Prince Charming had decided not to show, so this perfect prom star had been stood up. Her pink cupcake of a dress seemed to deflate as she waited for her date in vain.
Strands of hair from her up-do began to fall out of place, finding their way into her eyes. She blew the streaks of blonde out of her face through puckered lips. The music moaned in the background about being together forever. Girls sunk into their partners, letting the boys whisper sweet nothings in their ears.
When Lucy sighed the breath rearranged the loose hair. She fought back tears wishing her date would magically appear.
Facing the facts, she had been stood up.
She shifted a bit in her seat, letting her oversized dress fall around her. Sighing, she stood up and made her way to the punch, which she hoped was spiked.
She skated across the floor, dodging couples nuzzled close to each other. Her white shoes stood out against the polished wooden floor when they peaked out from under her dress.
THe punch was a ruby red and clean to Lucy's disappointment. She sipped the drink as the music changed into an upbeat pop song. The mob of students broke away from their tight embraces and began hopping to a teenage anthem.
Suddenly a boy clad in a black tuxedo materialized from the crowd. He ladled out a cup of punch and stood next to Lucy.
"You alone?" His smile was soft.
"I guess so." She stared at his black shoes. His left shoe was untied, but she decided to keep that to herself.
"What a shame, such a pretty girl, all by herself." He smiled wider.
"Well thank you."
"Who are you little lady?"
"Lucy. Why haven't I seen you at school?"
"I, uh, just transfered in. I'm Tom."
"Well, nice to meet you." Lucy tucked a flyway hair behind her ear.
The next teenage power ballad came on and Tom offered a shaky hand to Lucy. When she took it, he lead her into the middle of the crowd.
After a few awkward moments, she let herself sink into him. They swayed as the singer pined about his love interest of the week. Tom wasn't the best dancer, as he was frequently stepping on Lucy's toes, but he was better than drinking punch alone.
The thin straps of her dress were slowly down her shoulders. Tom gently pushed one further down.
"Stop it!" Lucy fiercely whispered. Despite her protests he continued. By the time the dress was only being held up by her chest, she pushed him away.
"I said stop it." She used the back of her white heel to step on his foot. Then she stormed off back to the punch bowl, fixing her straps as she crossed the ballroom floor.
Many students looked at Tom, but the teachers remained oblivious. Lucy quickly left the dance and started her car.
She was ready for this nightmare of a prom to be over.
One girl sat, left ankle tucked behind her right, with her back to the pristine floral wallpaper. She watched the others waltz around, heels sliding them into their boys arms.
Lucy was alone.
Prince Charming had decided not to show, so this perfect prom star had been stood up. Her pink cupcake of a dress seemed to deflate as she waited for her date in vain.
Strands of hair from her up-do began to fall out of place, finding their way into her eyes. She blew the streaks of blonde out of her face through puckered lips. The music moaned in the background about being together forever. Girls sunk into their partners, letting the boys whisper sweet nothings in their ears.
When Lucy sighed the breath rearranged the loose hair. She fought back tears wishing her date would magically appear.
Facing the facts, she had been stood up.
She shifted a bit in her seat, letting her oversized dress fall around her. Sighing, she stood up and made her way to the punch, which she hoped was spiked.
She skated across the floor, dodging couples nuzzled close to each other. Her white shoes stood out against the polished wooden floor when they peaked out from under her dress.
THe punch was a ruby red and clean to Lucy's disappointment. She sipped the drink as the music changed into an upbeat pop song. The mob of students broke away from their tight embraces and began hopping to a teenage anthem.
Suddenly a boy clad in a black tuxedo materialized from the crowd. He ladled out a cup of punch and stood next to Lucy.
"You alone?" His smile was soft.
"I guess so." She stared at his black shoes. His left shoe was untied, but she decided to keep that to herself.
"What a shame, such a pretty girl, all by herself." He smiled wider.
"Well thank you."
"Who are you little lady?"
"Lucy. Why haven't I seen you at school?"
"I, uh, just transfered in. I'm Tom."
"Well, nice to meet you." Lucy tucked a flyway hair behind her ear.
The next teenage power ballad came on and Tom offered a shaky hand to Lucy. When she took it, he lead her into the middle of the crowd.
After a few awkward moments, she let herself sink into him. They swayed as the singer pined about his love interest of the week. Tom wasn't the best dancer, as he was frequently stepping on Lucy's toes, but he was better than drinking punch alone.
The thin straps of her dress were slowly down her shoulders. Tom gently pushed one further down.
"Stop it!" Lucy fiercely whispered. Despite her protests he continued. By the time the dress was only being held up by her chest, she pushed him away.
"I said stop it." She used the back of her white heel to step on his foot. Then she stormed off back to the punch bowl, fixing her straps as she crossed the ballroom floor.
Many students looked at Tom, but the teachers remained oblivious. Lucy quickly left the dance and started her car.
She was ready for this nightmare of a prom to be over.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Abandon
Bare feet bent the stalks of long grass. Rabbits scampered into the earth, as the tiny child massaged the roots of broken plants with her toes. For all she knew, she was alone, a child born of the field.
As she moved forward the blades sprung back to life, swaying in the breeze. Nodding flowers greeted her with sweet smells and playful colors. Beyond the safety of the field, with it's kisses of lilac, strong grasses, and gentle winds, lay something sinister.
She wove her fingers into a chain fence, making imprints on her hands. Gripping the wires, she looked at an abandoned house..
Detaching herself from the fence, she turned back to the clearing, dusting the flecks of rust off her hands. Having been spoiled with the view of the house, the blossoms no longer enchanted her. She wished for walls to keep out the wind.
The flowers bowed to her, unaware that their princess was resigning. She went to the oak tree in the center of the field. She sobbed, praying for windows and walls. The birds echoed the small girl's lament. The wind howled with her as she begged to live in the house.
After hours of crying, the girl curled up at the base of the tree. The moss near the tree grew in soft green patches. One tuff was her pillow and the falling leaves were her blanket. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of the house.
Come the morning, purple stained fingertips plucked blackberries along the edge of the field. As she awoke she saw the fruit locked away by the barrier. Every morning she remembered had been started by a breakfast of berries. The clearing had always provided everything she needed.
For the first time this abandoned child felt a wanting. A wanting for the other berries. A wanting for companionship. Most of all, a wanting for the house that sat beyond the fence.
"Come, come, come." A sing-song voice traveled on the wind. She understood but didn't know who had taught her this word. With little hesitation she followed the wind to her boundaries.
"Come. Come. Come." The voice persisted. The girl, no older than ten kneeled at the fence. Looking up, the mess of wires was too high to climb.
She looked back at the great tree, remembering chasing families of squirrels through the canopy. She had steady hands and strong legs, built through her races with the rabbits.
After much deliberation, she latched onto the fence. He hands could close completely around the metal. It took time for her to get a foot hold. Her feet were accustomed to the soft grass, cool dirt, and kind bark of the tree, not the man-made steel that bit into her skin. Her nimble hands rescued her when her feet lost their place. When she could peer over the tips of the wires she leaped into the abandoned yard.
The ground was a hard, dark brown with tiny spiderweb cracks reaching to the wilting grass. She crept to the porch trying her best to avoid the thickets of thorns.
With a newly ripped hem in her dress, she took her first sep onto the porch. First the wood squeaked, then it let out a deep painful moan. Tip-toeing over bugs, she turned the dull bronze doorknob.
The hing creaked as she nudged the door open. Dust flew from the floor boards as the door hit the wall. She made her way through the clouds of dirt as the floor cried from the unexpected guest.
Everything was dark.
She had forgotten convinces like chairs. She ran her hand across the edge of the tab;e, picking up the soft grime that had rested there.
In a corner as an antique grandfather clock. On that side of the room there was a sound like a baby's heartbeat. A near silent tick-tock as she investigated the old victorian chair.
She crawled into the chair, putting her filthy feer into the padded seat. Turning to face the clock, she gripped the back of the chair. Swaying with the pendulum, she danced o the steady beat of the clock.
She wanted a closeness with the clock. Closeness was not something that existed in the field. Everything was together and joined, but she did not know how to relate to the clock.
Footprints were left in the dirt as the floorboards let out their protests. The small girl smudged her finger prints on the glass that protected the golden soul of the clock. She ran her fingers back and forth, chasing the circle, watching it slice the air.
The grandfather clock reached the ceiling. It was the only truly clean thing in the house. The wood looked polished, the glass shined, save for where her fingers touched, and there was not a speck of dust to be found.
She watched for hours. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. She pressed into the glass and it swung open.
For a few seconds she felt fear. Fear the clock was broken. Fear the ticking would stop. Fear of a general stillness.
Curiosity outweighed fear, as it normally does, and she opened the glass fully. She was relieved to see the gears in the clock still running. The gentle swaying and the soft noise was still there. The clock was safe.
More safe than the soft moss by the wise tree, the chirping birds, and the blooming flowers.
The clock was inviting her in. She was hypnotized by the clock and when the chimes struck five, she crawled in. She shut the glass behind her, sitting with her back against the wall. She became in tune with the clock's rhythm. She lost herself.
There were no more flowers to pick. She became a part of the clock, a machine, no longer a little girl. In time even here foot prints were covered by dust.
As she moved forward the blades sprung back to life, swaying in the breeze. Nodding flowers greeted her with sweet smells and playful colors. Beyond the safety of the field, with it's kisses of lilac, strong grasses, and gentle winds, lay something sinister.
She wove her fingers into a chain fence, making imprints on her hands. Gripping the wires, she looked at an abandoned house..
Detaching herself from the fence, she turned back to the clearing, dusting the flecks of rust off her hands. Having been spoiled with the view of the house, the blossoms no longer enchanted her. She wished for walls to keep out the wind.
The flowers bowed to her, unaware that their princess was resigning. She went to the oak tree in the center of the field. She sobbed, praying for windows and walls. The birds echoed the small girl's lament. The wind howled with her as she begged to live in the house.
After hours of crying, the girl curled up at the base of the tree. The moss near the tree grew in soft green patches. One tuff was her pillow and the falling leaves were her blanket. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of the house.
Come the morning, purple stained fingertips plucked blackberries along the edge of the field. As she awoke she saw the fruit locked away by the barrier. Every morning she remembered had been started by a breakfast of berries. The clearing had always provided everything she needed.
For the first time this abandoned child felt a wanting. A wanting for the other berries. A wanting for companionship. Most of all, a wanting for the house that sat beyond the fence.
"Come, come, come." A sing-song voice traveled on the wind. She understood but didn't know who had taught her this word. With little hesitation she followed the wind to her boundaries.
"Come. Come. Come." The voice persisted. The girl, no older than ten kneeled at the fence. Looking up, the mess of wires was too high to climb.
She looked back at the great tree, remembering chasing families of squirrels through the canopy. She had steady hands and strong legs, built through her races with the rabbits.
After much deliberation, she latched onto the fence. He hands could close completely around the metal. It took time for her to get a foot hold. Her feet were accustomed to the soft grass, cool dirt, and kind bark of the tree, not the man-made steel that bit into her skin. Her nimble hands rescued her when her feet lost their place. When she could peer over the tips of the wires she leaped into the abandoned yard.
The ground was a hard, dark brown with tiny spiderweb cracks reaching to the wilting grass. She crept to the porch trying her best to avoid the thickets of thorns.
With a newly ripped hem in her dress, she took her first sep onto the porch. First the wood squeaked, then it let out a deep painful moan. Tip-toeing over bugs, she turned the dull bronze doorknob.
The hing creaked as she nudged the door open. Dust flew from the floor boards as the door hit the wall. She made her way through the clouds of dirt as the floor cried from the unexpected guest.
Everything was dark.
She had forgotten convinces like chairs. She ran her hand across the edge of the tab;e, picking up the soft grime that had rested there.
In a corner as an antique grandfather clock. On that side of the room there was a sound like a baby's heartbeat. A near silent tick-tock as she investigated the old victorian chair.
She crawled into the chair, putting her filthy feer into the padded seat. Turning to face the clock, she gripped the back of the chair. Swaying with the pendulum, she danced o the steady beat of the clock.
She wanted a closeness with the clock. Closeness was not something that existed in the field. Everything was together and joined, but she did not know how to relate to the clock.
Footprints were left in the dirt as the floorboards let out their protests. The small girl smudged her finger prints on the glass that protected the golden soul of the clock. She ran her fingers back and forth, chasing the circle, watching it slice the air.
The grandfather clock reached the ceiling. It was the only truly clean thing in the house. The wood looked polished, the glass shined, save for where her fingers touched, and there was not a speck of dust to be found.
She watched for hours. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. She pressed into the glass and it swung open.
For a few seconds she felt fear. Fear the clock was broken. Fear the ticking would stop. Fear of a general stillness.
Curiosity outweighed fear, as it normally does, and she opened the glass fully. She was relieved to see the gears in the clock still running. The gentle swaying and the soft noise was still there. The clock was safe.
More safe than the soft moss by the wise tree, the chirping birds, and the blooming flowers.
The clock was inviting her in. She was hypnotized by the clock and when the chimes struck five, she crawled in. She shut the glass behind her, sitting with her back against the wall. She became in tune with the clock's rhythm. She lost herself.
There were no more flowers to pick. She became a part of the clock, a machine, no longer a little girl. In time even here foot prints were covered by dust.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Bus
The city bus smells like your best friend's house. Specifically that time you made Indian wontons, deep fried, filled with a rich feta cheese and crumbled vegetarian meat patties. You both ate too many; every time you burped for at least a week it tasted like stale grease.
The scent vanishes. You look at the ceiling. It's a pale off-white, smattered with gum. How did someone get gum on the ceiling? You look around and realize there is gum everywhere you could imagine: the windows, the doors, the undersides of the seat, and, for the unfortunate rider, the actual fabric covering. Pink, purple and green mostly, with the occasional blue and a white that blends into the color of the area surrounding the windows. You pull out a piece of Wintergreen from your bag; the pale green is so different from the vibrant color of the residue.
The bus turns. Now the odor is a dead skunk, a putrid smell that makes you cover your mouth and cough. You glance out the window to see if you can see the animal. He is nowhere to be found. He must have died tucked away from your view in the forest. You hope his death was painless, unlike the stabbing in your back from the carpeted seats. You turn, trying to relieve some pressure.
Instead knives are in your back, reminding you of the many times you split your arm open with the "safety razor" picked out of a pink ladies shaver. The blood felt warm on your fingertips as it dripped into the shower, and then it felt cold as you began to lose consciousness.
You hold your arm, curious if anyone on the bus had seen the dark purple scars. The only woman ever remotely close is absorbed in a battered copy of the second Harry Potter book.
Another woman in the back can be heard spouting Ebonics. "He ain't no good for you. You deserve better." You ponder this. Better, what is better? You too deserve better, not being rushed to the hospital in a cramped car to get an emergency blood transfusion after filling the bathtub. The room was too small, your gown was assless, but most importantly it was sleeveless. Doctors were staring and stitching up your arms; your personal space was being invaded. Similar to how your space is being invaded right now, as a homeless man with red hair and a toothless smile, having just boarded the bus, is leaning in a bit too close to your chest.
The breaks pop. The overhead system dings to signal someone handicap leaving the bus, sounding like the heart monitor when you were so sure you had bleed to death. The beeps slow and rhythmical. Unfortunately, you lived.
You slump into a seat, glancing around wide eyed, sure that someone has seen your cuts. The bus changes momentum, you catch a whiff of your best friend's house again, and ache for home.
The scent vanishes. You look at the ceiling. It's a pale off-white, smattered with gum. How did someone get gum on the ceiling? You look around and realize there is gum everywhere you could imagine: the windows, the doors, the undersides of the seat, and, for the unfortunate rider, the actual fabric covering. Pink, purple and green mostly, with the occasional blue and a white that blends into the color of the area surrounding the windows. You pull out a piece of Wintergreen from your bag; the pale green is so different from the vibrant color of the residue.
The bus turns. Now the odor is a dead skunk, a putrid smell that makes you cover your mouth and cough. You glance out the window to see if you can see the animal. He is nowhere to be found. He must have died tucked away from your view in the forest. You hope his death was painless, unlike the stabbing in your back from the carpeted seats. You turn, trying to relieve some pressure.
Instead knives are in your back, reminding you of the many times you split your arm open with the "safety razor" picked out of a pink ladies shaver. The blood felt warm on your fingertips as it dripped into the shower, and then it felt cold as you began to lose consciousness.
You hold your arm, curious if anyone on the bus had seen the dark purple scars. The only woman ever remotely close is absorbed in a battered copy of the second Harry Potter book.
Another woman in the back can be heard spouting Ebonics. "He ain't no good for you. You deserve better." You ponder this. Better, what is better? You too deserve better, not being rushed to the hospital in a cramped car to get an emergency blood transfusion after filling the bathtub. The room was too small, your gown was assless, but most importantly it was sleeveless. Doctors were staring and stitching up your arms; your personal space was being invaded. Similar to how your space is being invaded right now, as a homeless man with red hair and a toothless smile, having just boarded the bus, is leaning in a bit too close to your chest.
The breaks pop. The overhead system dings to signal someone handicap leaving the bus, sounding like the heart monitor when you were so sure you had bleed to death. The beeps slow and rhythmical. Unfortunately, you lived.
You slump into a seat, glancing around wide eyed, sure that someone has seen your cuts. The bus changes momentum, you catch a whiff of your best friend's house again, and ache for home.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monosyllabic
I sat at the tomb. My dad was dead. His life just ash. All was lost. Mom, not mine, stood at the site. She told me to call her Mom now. I hate her more than my dead dad, her dumb kid, or her dog. All was lost.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Quarter 3rd Person
He bows to the porcelain thrown. The rest of his lunch is finding it's way up his esophagus, burning away the lining. He doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he seems to be preoccupied. His shorts slip, almost completely removed from his backside. He doesn't even bother to grab them, this had become his daily routine.
He looks at a lonely quarter, hidden behind the toilet. When he was five it would have bought him something cool from a vending machine, like a super bouncy ball that the dog or his little sister could choke on. His little sister was naturally a size zero, he envied her, even though she was only twelve.
At the thought of being thin he throws himself forward again, lurching as he purges. He regrets lots of things, like not being his younger sister, but right now he regrets eating. This is how he fixes his slip-ups. If he was the perfect weight, then no one would make fun of him at school, like they do now. He's just some big gay joke for his university. He still weighs too much to be perfect. 95 pounds was like a obese walrus to him, he just wanted to be 90 pounds. 90
pounds was perfect.
Perfect like the models he saw at age 8 when he went to the mall with his mother, and then baby sister. He let the quarter remind him that he was almost 25 and was losing his hair. But he will destroy everything until he's thin, thin as a model. Those models were so thin. If he was 8 again that quarter would have bought him a ball of chewing gum, but he no longer chews gum. Gum is calories he has no way to purge. Where do they go? It's not like he was ingesting anything, as such he didn't believe the myth about celery either, that it was negative calories. No thing is negative calories, there is only water which is no calories at all.
At the thought of no calories he bends forward again, only bending too much and collapsing. He's down to the bottom of his stomach, all that is coming forward is stomach acid, but he figures that has calories too. After he's sure he's rid his stomach of everything he pulls himself up and makes his way to the sink.
As he washes his mouth out with mouthwash, he wonders about the calorie count for it. He's extra careful not to swallow even a milligram. He spits into the sink, turning the water on to wash the green away. He looks at the quarter once again, thinking about how at 15 he would have tried to win a free taco at Taco Bell, but now he was a vegetarian, less calories, less fat. Just the thought of Taco Bell made him feel like a mammoth.
He picks up the quarter, figuring he'll use it for laundry, turn the water on as hot as it will go, and try to shrink his clothes a size.
He looks at a lonely quarter, hidden behind the toilet. When he was five it would have bought him something cool from a vending machine, like a super bouncy ball that the dog or his little sister could choke on. His little sister was naturally a size zero, he envied her, even though she was only twelve.
At the thought of being thin he throws himself forward again, lurching as he purges. He regrets lots of things, like not being his younger sister, but right now he regrets eating. This is how he fixes his slip-ups. If he was the perfect weight, then no one would make fun of him at school, like they do now. He's just some big gay joke for his university. He still weighs too much to be perfect. 95 pounds was like a obese walrus to him, he just wanted to be 90 pounds. 90
pounds was perfect.
Perfect like the models he saw at age 8 when he went to the mall with his mother, and then baby sister. He let the quarter remind him that he was almost 25 and was losing his hair. But he will destroy everything until he's thin, thin as a model. Those models were so thin. If he was 8 again that quarter would have bought him a ball of chewing gum, but he no longer chews gum. Gum is calories he has no way to purge. Where do they go? It's not like he was ingesting anything, as such he didn't believe the myth about celery either, that it was negative calories. No thing is negative calories, there is only water which is no calories at all.
At the thought of no calories he bends forward again, only bending too much and collapsing. He's down to the bottom of his stomach, all that is coming forward is stomach acid, but he figures that has calories too. After he's sure he's rid his stomach of everything he pulls himself up and makes his way to the sink.
As he washes his mouth out with mouthwash, he wonders about the calorie count for it. He's extra careful not to swallow even a milligram. He spits into the sink, turning the water on to wash the green away. He looks at the quarter once again, thinking about how at 15 he would have tried to win a free taco at Taco Bell, but now he was a vegetarian, less calories, less fat. Just the thought of Taco Bell made him feel like a mammoth.
He picks up the quarter, figuring he'll use it for laundry, turn the water on as hot as it will go, and try to shrink his clothes a size.
Quarter 1st Person
I bow to the porcelain thrown, the remnants of my lunch sliding out of my stomach. It was sickly, feeling everything come back up at me, but the feeling was not new. I made a habit of this after every meal. Lately it had become a chore to hold down liquids. The weight loss was nice but the acid stung. Little bits of undigested food were becoming stuck in my teeth. I'll deal, I think, as my tiny shorts slip down my backside. Damn it, I'll be buying clothes from the children's section, again.
I see a quarter out of the corner of my eye, left in the area behind the toilet. Lint has began to cover it, reminding me of a simpler time, specifically, when I was five, and I beg my mother for a quarter to get a Power Puff Girl action figure from a vending machine at a chinese restaurant. I could have opted in for a temporary tattoo, but instead I wanted the cheap plastic.
At the thought of cheap plastic I purge again. I always wanted to be a plastic in high school, but I was always too big. If they could see me now, they'd let me into their clique right away. I regret eating, not just this time, but every time. Eating means I must cleanse myself, rid myself of it's impurities. I'm 95 pounds impure, and all I want is to be 90. I'd be thin as a model then.
I look at the quarter again. 25. Almost my age, and my hair was already falling out in little patches of my pillow, but I will be thin. It was my mantra, through good times and bad. I will be thin. If I was eight I would have used the quarter for a ball of gum, but now at 21 I can't even chew gum, the calories being to high of a price to pay.
I collapse, the hunger pains tearing me apart. I'm down to the pit of my stomach and all
that remains is stomach acid and a few chewed up bits of tofu chicken nuggets. Soon all I taste is acid, so I pick myself off the floor and make my way for the mouth wash.
I wonder if mouthwash has calories, because if it does I don't want to swallow. That's what I always tell my boyfriend anyway, his sperm is 37 calories I can't afford. I rinse and swish rapidly, then spit in a spray into the sink. I clean my mouth again with a gargle of water. Water is pure. Water has no calories. Water is safe.
I glance at the quarter again, it must have been left by someone, forgotten. If I was fifteen I would have use that quarter to try to win a free taco from Taco Bell. Now I'm a vegetarian, less calories, less fat, and less me. I wouldn't dream of eating Taco Bell, just the thought makes me feel huge. I wash my face with warm water, then splash cold into my eyes to lower the redness.
I pick up the quarter and walk out of the bathroom. Maybe I'll use it to do my laundry, turn the water on hot, and try to shrink these shorts.
I see a quarter out of the corner of my eye, left in the area behind the toilet. Lint has began to cover it, reminding me of a simpler time, specifically, when I was five, and I beg my mother for a quarter to get a Power Puff Girl action figure from a vending machine at a chinese restaurant. I could have opted in for a temporary tattoo, but instead I wanted the cheap plastic.
At the thought of cheap plastic I purge again. I always wanted to be a plastic in high school, but I was always too big. If they could see me now, they'd let me into their clique right away. I regret eating, not just this time, but every time. Eating means I must cleanse myself, rid myself of it's impurities. I'm 95 pounds impure, and all I want is to be 90. I'd be thin as a model then.
I look at the quarter again. 25. Almost my age, and my hair was already falling out in little patches of my pillow, but I will be thin. It was my mantra, through good times and bad. I will be thin. If I was eight I would have used the quarter for a ball of gum, but now at 21 I can't even chew gum, the calories being to high of a price to pay.
I collapse, the hunger pains tearing me apart. I'm down to the pit of my stomach and all
that remains is stomach acid and a few chewed up bits of tofu chicken nuggets. Soon all I taste is acid, so I pick myself off the floor and make my way for the mouth wash.
I wonder if mouthwash has calories, because if it does I don't want to swallow. That's what I always tell my boyfriend anyway, his sperm is 37 calories I can't afford. I rinse and swish rapidly, then spit in a spray into the sink. I clean my mouth again with a gargle of water. Water is pure. Water has no calories. Water is safe.
I glance at the quarter again, it must have been left by someone, forgotten. If I was fifteen I would have use that quarter to try to win a free taco from Taco Bell. Now I'm a vegetarian, less calories, less fat, and less me. I wouldn't dream of eating Taco Bell, just the thought makes me feel huge. I wash my face with warm water, then splash cold into my eyes to lower the redness.
I pick up the quarter and walk out of the bathroom. Maybe I'll use it to do my laundry, turn the water on hot, and try to shrink these shorts.
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