I ate a bunch yesterday, and then had dinner plans with a new friend yesternight. = more eating. So we got dumpling and a sesame pancake and a sticky bun in the lower east side. And then we went to a muffin place and got banana creme puddin and a spicy pumpkin muffin. Needless to say, I was feeling guilty about eating so much shit, somewhere in my mind. I'm always feeling guilty when it comes to food; but it's my job to stay skinny, so it goes hand in hand I'd say.
But this happened to me before in New York on a particularly guilty morning where I worried about my consumption. I woke up sick. With a tummy ache. And shit, a bunch. Cleared my insides. It's like my guilt manifests itself in my metabolism. From mentally fucking with my mind to physically fucking me.
But of coarse it is a sick pleasure. Because the physical sickness is guilt free. This get-out-of-jail free card for my eating because my body coordinates with my head so I don't have to burn off the food, I just have to queezily expell it.
Usually, my best days are when I'm low on the scale when I weigh myself. I've avoided the scale like the plague lately; convinced that I'll eat less or better that day and so it's best if I weigh tomorrow. I weighed today, after I shit, of coarse. And I'll weigh again, after I shit again, if I do. And it will make me feel good.
That is so retardedly fucked up. But that's my little world. I watch the foodnetwork, eat tons and say I have a fast metabolism to everyone and myself, balancing on a mushy foundation of guilty eating.
The thing is, I try to pretend that my paranoia isn't there. That my best days aren't 'down' days on the scale in the morning. But here I am, loving that my fucking stomach woke me up 4 hours after I went to sleep and keeps churning away, because, maybe...just maybe...I'll get to shit take 3 this morning, which leaves more room for more food&guilt to fill my belly.
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