18:06 - 02.08.2007
already bulimic

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? lindsey lohan, britney spears, paris hilton--bitte? don�t quite think a bulimic would let themselves be seen with a box of coco puffs shining through a translucent plastic sack like a beacon. no, i�ve always been a fan of self-checkouts; canvas sacks brought from home when i can, or paper when it goes all too unplanned, as it often seems to, being that i work in a grocery store. of course, i usually try to go to other stores. so people won�t see me.

oh, and you�re already bulimic because you ate a cookie and threw it up, right? a cookie? huh? one? one. maybe one bag of cookies. and a jar of peanut butter. and a jar of salsa. or a whole box of poptarts. a big-ass bag of chocolate. a bag of chips and a bottle of ketchup. an entire pie. no fork or knife necessary. and you never tasted any of it beyond the first bite. because with that comes the thought of �oh god, oh god, oh god�i'm such a fat hog; i�m going to die!� and you compulsively shove the rest of it down your throat as quickly as possible and tear apart the house looking for more without ever even knowing that you are doing it. until suddenly you�re sitting there with sticky fingers and face in a pool of empty bags and crumbs and with crumbs and stickiness all over your clothes and bedspread. and then you start crying.

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? drink two whole bottles of ipecac. first one careful dose. then it�s not working fast enough. so another. and then there�s just a little bit left in the bottle, so you down that, too. and it�s still not fast enough. half jar of peanut butter. half a chocolate bar (all that was left of it). six poptarts. twenty french fries (all that were left) smothered in ketchup. a bagel (?). maybe. you don�t even remember now. ketchup and hot peppers and crackers, you think. you don�t know. freaking out. you down the other bottle.

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? three hours later, you�re still vomiting violently, wondering when the hell it will stop. red like ketchup. out your nose. chunks of french fries float in the toilet bowl. poptart pieces scrape up your throat, undigested. peanut butter is the worst. the thicker and chunkier, naturally, the more horrific. i�ve choked puking up peanut butter. sticks in the throat. almost lost consciousness. dickes, dickes, dickes, ubeles ernuβbutter!

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? liebe mutti is complaining now, how she just cleamed the bathrooms and scrubbed vomit stains out of the toilet bowls and sinks, and you just went and puked in each and every one of them again. you think she should be glad that, at least, you made it in the toilet bowl this time. not on the carpet. not in the sink that you didn�t know was clogged and not draining until you puked and puked and puked in it because you couldn�t reach the toilet. feeling like shit, had to unclog it before someone came home and noticed. jump up from your favorite tv show to go puke some more. happens a commercial break was on. vati calls to you to come back; the show is back on. start crying again. because he has no clue. should you tell him?

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? throwing food away, digging it back out of the trash. sneak a ten out of vatis wallet to go buy some peanut butter and cookies. or a handful of change from muttis piggy bank to get some caffeine pills. in the store, you realize that you can�t quite afford to get everything you want. got the cookies, the chips, the peanut butter, lila energy drinks (overly caffeinated, sugar and calorie free; drink two and you�ll be high as a kite), and laxatives. at least two will have to go back. the laxative box is small. you drop it in your coat pocket and no one can even tell. carrying that ugly green purse that you tell yourself will make everything okay again. three cans of the purple diuretic fit in, no problem. take great pains to quietly pop the top on the third and take a sip. good, good. warm it in your hands and sip, walking, until it looks like you came in with it. oh the guilt, the horror, the shame!

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? locked up in the cage of your bedroom. popping laxatives like candy for you butt. sleeping off the pain. avoiding the world. won�t go outside or answer the phone. chugging diuretics and working out frantically for ten hours. rode a stationary bike. max resistance. 40mph. for nearly two hours. reason i stopped then? fell off the bike. couldn't get back up. for a little bit. bruised upon the floor. broken. heart and mind bleeding.

but you�re already bulimic, aren�t you? yo-yo scrape. skinny one day; fat the next. weird things happen to your body and the way it works and looks. can't take a shit without laxatives. can�t stop thinking out food. feel fat and guilty when you do. want to just be good, to not be a fat cow. why is it so hard to starve yourself? damned anorexics! maybe this will all end today; maybe a million years from now. just need a new plan and a new face. but you already know that right?

because you�re already bulimic, aren�t you?