Grotesque

 The digital clock on my microwave reads 1:38. It is actually shortly after 8 PM; the time there is still frozen from when I impatiently snatched an oatmeal binge--6 packets--from the clutches of heat, searing my fingertips and spilling it all over the side of my microfridge.

This weekend I have not bothered to shave or shower, nothing new. I haven't bothered to leave my room save for jaunts to get more food, nothing new. I have done no work, made no art, written nothing for my quickly approaching creative writing deadline--again, nothing new.

What kills me is this weekend could have been totally different. I had done so well that week. I was so convinced that I had gained weight during a lovely excursion on a beautiful day with my mother, so obsessed with the memory of an unfinished organic cheddar and tomato quesadilla, so angry that I was out of control, so sad that I am so lonely and such a lecher, that I was giving my parents the silent treatment on the way back to campus Sunday morning (too busy thinking about my fuck-it binge). I could have gotten a ~real meal~, a garden burger and maybe some natural Sierra Mist, but I didn't. When I entered my room I stripped naked and jumped on my scale--and I hadn't gained anything. In fact, I had lost .2 lbs. I was in shock, with no idea of what to do with myself or the feel-sorry-for-yourself binge food sitting on my dresser. I checked my email--I got the interview I wanted for a holiday job at a major department store. Everything could have gone so differently if only I just threw out the food then.

Instead I am a pound-plus-some heavier in waterweight, with a sore throat losenges can't help and a lost voice. I reek of vomit and body odor. I have said no more than a sentence to anyone today--the most probably being "Yes, I want fries with that."

I really hate myself sometimes.