I keep a tape measure in the refrigerator, so every time I open the door for more snacks, it serves as a reminder that the circumference of my arse is steadily increasing. I wish there was something I could do to stop it, but ever since I caught Max in our bed with Marcy, I can't stop dipping gummy bears in ice cream and washing them down with doughnuts. I love doughnuts. I often feel like a doughnut myself...maybe it's the hole in the middle? I find doughnuts to be poetic symbols of my own delicate psyche...lots of sweetness and doughy softness surrounding a bleak core of emptiness. And sometimes I'm a nutty mess soaked in milk.
I don't eat when I'm hungry. Maybe that's the problem. When I'm hungry I have a Diet pop and a cig and call it a day. I only eat when I'm angry, bored, lonely, scared, stoned, drunk, or miserable, so I guess I'm eatin' all the bloody time.
I don't like vegetables. That's one thing I won't eat. When I was a small bird, my parents forced me to eat green beans at the supper table, and succeeded in causing me to vomit my entire dinner all over my plate. It's a tactic that came quite in handy when trying to regulate the obscene amount of binging that would take place between the ages of 15 and 20, a period of time when we lived near a sweet shoppe. Nothing makes you feel better than cramming down twelve Cadbury Cream Eggs, fifteen toasted tea cakes, and a block of treacle toffee, then going into the w.c. to puke it all up. You get exactly two minutes to enjoy the satisfaction of demolishing all that sugary rubbish, before you're consumed with revulsion for yourself, so you shove your hand down your thoat and pretend none of it ever happened.
I will admit, it's rather obscene while it's happening. But afterwards, you feel much, MUCH prettier.
No comments:
Post a Comment