Mug

I am disgusting. I am a tub of lard. My breasts hang from my body now, thick and sloppy and heavy against my chest, fleshy and baggy. I am convinced that the ten pounds in water weight I retained from Halloween weekend is all real, that my belly has sprouted bulges of fat overnight. Everything that has gotten thin doesn't seem thin anymore. I don't know what my goal weight is anymore--size six is not what I thought it would be. It isn't "small," I am anything but what it says on the label of my new pencil skirt. I am large and stout and blubbery, sexless and homely. I do not walk, I hobble. And while I'm looking gross, why not be gross, too. Don't shower. Don't brush your teeth. Wipe the puke off your wrists with a paper towel; don't wash your hands. Don't change underwear. Cover everything. Shroud yourself in maxi dresses and baggy sweaters. Hide in your room with your bottle of rum. No one sees a girl when they see you--only a thing.