I Get Absolutely Shitfaced. I Am Shitfaced

I Mean, We All Know The Dangers Of Starving, But Bulimia? That Can't Be That Bad. It's Only Bad When You Get Really Thin. Who Worries About Bulimics? They're Just Gross.

I Either Want To Be Completely Recovered Or Completely Emaciated. It's The In Between That I Can't Stand, The Limbo Of Failure Where You Know That You Haven't Done Your Best At One Or The Other: Dying Or Living.

Somewhere In The Back Of My Brain There Exists This Certainty: The Body Is No More Than A Costume, And Can Be Changed At Will. That The Changing Of Bodies, Like Costumes, Would Make Me Into A Different Character, A Character Who Might, Finally, Be Alright.

Never, Never Underestimate The Power Of Desire. If You Want To Live Badly Enough, You Can Live. The Great Question, At Least For Me, Was: How Do I Decide I Want To Live?

I Know How This Feels: The Tightening Of The Chest, The Panic, The What-have-i-done-wait-i-was-kidding. Eating Disorders Linger So Long Undetected, Eroding The Body In Silence, And Then They Strike. The Secret Is Out. You're Dying.