09:15 - 14.11.2007
(soft, sad piano music playing deliberately in the background, one note at a time)

the black&green scarecrow may be sadder than me, but definitely is not sicker. no one is. impossible. or at least very difficult to believe. i suppose that, in fairness, someone suffering from cancer or hiv and slowly dying is more ill than i am, simply for the fact that their disease isn't their fault; more of an accident. whereas my bulimia is brought on entirely by own hand. or so they say. i say it's brought on by mia, who is verymuch a realperson to me, but merely a loud&dangerous voiceinsidemyhead and/or figmetofmyimagination to others. sie VERSTEHEN doch nicht!

my best friend thinks i am the worst bulimic in the world. retching over the toilet this morning, heaving so violently my entire body convulsed, to bring up nothing but air and dribbles of stomach acid, i was inclined to agree. that was the second time. first time brought up formerlypink, white pills and stomach acid. can't even throw up properly half the time. but that's not my fault, and not, of course, what is meant by me being the worst bulimic in the world. worst as in, we've never heard of anyone else popping 120 correctol pills without giving in a second thought, five in a swallow. 30, yes, 50, yes, but nevermore. exlax, too. they take exlax, not correctol, usually. i tried exlax, extrastrength, flat blue pills, once. they barely worked. much prefer the tiny, pink correctol pills, even though they're labeled "women's laxative." i don't get that. do men and women's digestive tracts truly operate so differently? i doubt it. i think it must just be that women suffer constipation more frequently than men, and therefore, the existence of a "woman's" laxartive makes them feel OK about it. you know, you know. whatever.

when i go shopping for mia, i always pick up the lax first, to make sure that they're available, that i have a guaranteed method of purging since vomitting, for me, is so unreliable and takes a hellofalot more effort. then i'm walking through the store, boxes clenched tightly in my fist, grabbing vegan junk food. hummus. pita. bagels. juice. crackers. tomato soup. (oh, i'm damned sick of peanut butter and cookies and chips and the like, thank gods.) pure dark chocolate bars. hummus & pita are the new craze, with a couple handfuls of chocolate for mia's sweet tooth, and grape juice to get the lax down. funny that i myself despise the food i binge on. would never normally eat it. turn up my nose at it. i like broccoli and apples and lentils and garlic and so on. the lax box recommends taking the lax with water. but then i can taste them after so long. the box also recommends not taking more than one at a time or using for more than a week. and a thousand other little warnings that i ignore. such as, if more than three are ingested at once, consult a poison control center immediately. 40 times the max dose. is it any wonder i feel like i'm dying when i purge? ethereal and dizzy, no clue who or what am i, where i am, what i'm doing, staggering back and forth to the bathroom. writhing in pain between, as the lax undoubtedlyu eat away at the lining of my stomach and intestines. clutching my head, moaning, as though i have a migrain.

refuse to let my finace lay a finger on me at such times. mia won't hear of it. "get away from me!" she shrieks inside my head, so i jerk away. clutching kasimir, the stuffed tiger my fiance bought me at the columbus zoo last summer, during my last fews days of being an ana, when everyone gaped at the skinny freak in black allday, instead. delusional belief that so long as i'm holding kasi, i can't die, can't get fat, nothing bad can happen. stone tiger keychain i bought at a metaphysical shop, one of two left here in columbus. the other four have gone under. all were once on highstreet between osu's campus and the short north. anyway, the keychain, also named kasimir. a smaller version of my stuffed animal. usually in the bathroom at work, praying no one will notice that i've runaway from my post, and especially not so many times during even a halfshift, stroking the stone, "what are we going to do, kasi?!" in despair. "kasimir," an oldgerman name, even though i think it sounds more middleeastern. means "the great destroyer." wish a tiger would gobbleup mia for me. grr! tja!

got all the pictures for my "0" year project. did i even write about that? pretty sure. and maybe stuff like this is a reason to hope i never become a famous artist. get sued my trent reznor for using his lyrics in a "bad" way. like he fucking needs the money. i have an incredibly low opinion of all celebrities, which i feel is entirely justified because they're all asses, no exceptions. soulless. just doing as they're told, thinking and saying what they're told, like puppets on a string. i suppose if i became famous, i'd hate myself. but i wouldn't have the agents and bullshit. i wouldn't even have my fiance. live alone, in some random location, hidden in plain sight. reclusive and bulimic. just me and mia. take that, world!

most of my art is about bulimia. (i wonder why, hmm???) and no one ever sees it, so no fears of being discovered and becoming famous. the only thing is to become just another dead mia. soon. soon.