i sat in the shower crying, eating cold pizza, hating myself with every bite since it seems like all i did today was eat and when i try to count cals all i want to do is die because i broke so many fucking rules and i wish i just fucking wish i could throw up. what kind of shitty bulimic am i? a fake one. the kind of bulimic who purges by exercising.
it’s not fucking good enough.
a friend told me recently that the lack of a gag reflex is entirely wasted on a lesbian.
well fuck her. because i would give anything to be able to get rid of this binge. instead i just keep eating and eating and gaining and gaining. i had reached my goal weight a month or so ago and it felt amazing and then in one shitty week i ruined all that progress. stupid fat bitch. next time i feel like binging i’m going to cut instead. punish myself in advance. with every bite i’ll go a little bit deeper. until i hit the fat of my thighs or forearms and can slice it out from beneath my skin. because that’s the only way i will ever be thin – if i slice the fat out myself.
tonight i am nursing a bottle of vodka. you know you’re an alcoholic when you can have about 6 standard drinks (australian) without even feeling tipsy. i almost had beer for breakfast but i love my job at the pharmacy, and can’t bear to lose the only thing that gives my life any fucking meaning.
so i’m nursing my vodka, proper vodka this time, 37% alcohol, and proper nursing, since i carried it back from the shops clutched tightly to my chest, mostly because my latest set of stitches are MAD infected and really fucking hurt, but the pus hasn’t reached the surface so there’s nothing i can do about it. maybe if i get sepsis i will finally fucking die.
should i write more drunk posts? they’d probably be pretty fucking funny, hey.