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.