I can’t sleep. My guts are churning after all that dairy, but all I can think about is food. I do know this is ridiculous. I do know I’m going to be sick. But I can’t help it. I cannot fight this demon. I don’t know how.
There are no more Mars bars left in my secret stash now. I’ve eaten them all. Wrappers litter my bed. And I’m lying back, burping and farting, trying to psych myself up to do the inevitable.
***
Let’s just get this out there. I don’t like being sick. I don’t think anyone does. I’m not full-on bulimic—those girls are hardcore, ’cause that means throwing up every single day, and I simply couldn’t face that—but it’s another string to my bow when things get too much. Eating is a pleasure. Digesting? Not so much.
Maybe I’m lactose intolerant. They say you crave the things you shouldn’t have. It would explain why I always want chocolate and cheese. Well, okay, that and they taste absolutely amazing, but I always feel terrible after eating them. All bloated and gassy. Maybe I should give them up. Okay, so the carb thing was a no-go, but now that Mum doesn’t give a fuck about anything any of us do, maybe it would be easier.
Maybe.
I slump over the toilet. Urgh. My throat feels sore, and pizza and chocolate do not taste as nice coming back up as they do doing down. My face feels hot and puffy, and my eyes sting. I blow my nose. A chunk of pepper flies out.
This is pretty low.
I’ve got to do something. Sort myself out. Sort everything out. Stop worrying about other people’s opinions. Make a change. Fuck the haters. They can kiss my fat ass, for all I care.
Ha. Watch it, you’re beginning to sound like those Instagrammers you loathe so much. Next thing you know, you’ll be setting up an “inspiration” account, posting how far you’ve run and taking pictures of your boringly healthy meals, complete with hashtags like #soblessed and #lovinglife. And then some poor sap will come along and troll you until you snap and trough down a whole family-sized candy bar so fast, the Guinness Book of Records will come knocking.
Nah. I’m not that desperate. Not yet.
Not ever.