At the moment I’m really jonesing some McDonald’s. I can go for a couple of snack wraps and a side of sodium deficiency right about now. I won’t though. I’ve been having the macramé munchies for about two days now, and my stomach–the Requisionist–has become ill-humored. It forgets what an oddball it really is as soon as that foxfire we call hunger starts knocking. I have yet to open the door, but that glimmer doesn’t stop. I don’t know why I am writing about my current relapse. I feel that it may help me get things off my chest or it just help me get off.
I’ve tried. I’m still somewhere in my beating benevolence trying and wanting to get better, but it just hurts, and I know that it sounds pathetic and whiny, but I don’t talk about how much it hurts to anyone. It’s hilarious. Food has evolved into some sort of workable warfare that takes place everyday in my central nervous system. I’m not satisfied with who I am = this itself being the utmost horrific abattoir you should never step foot in. I’ve said it before that ED is the immaculate version of Larry, of me, and even though I know I will never be exquisiteness personified, I’m helpless when I still picture those charitable cheekbones and those lips filled with crimson appetite.
I have fat fucking lips. Go eat a fig newton.
Pretty fucking vain. Vanity has and will always be a part of ED. Just a part though.
by Larry Leiva