writers

i was the girl writing out across the paper, out across the internet. bleeding on her blog (hahah). all over her pages. i was the teenage dreamer, baby blogger, journal cuddling, diary writing all night, the saccharine syrupy sentences, ugly impromptu paragraphs. and other things. i still am, at heart. somehow it's harder to write in my own voice now i'm older and attach my name to my thoughts. other people call themselves so easily - it took me twenty one years to call myself an artist.

on bulimia

i order a twenty piece chicken nuggets at the mcdonalds drive thru. i order a big mac. a chicken sandwhich. i get fries. a large coke (diet, obviously). i hold the brown paper bag close and feel the warmth and the smell of fried food in my lap and then i place it in the passenger seat. i am already starting to escape. we ride off ten minutes out of the city, until the roads become dirt and the streetlights stop shining on me. eating is one of my favourite things to do. 

it's easier to throw up on the side of the road because you can dispose of the evidence like you never committed the crime against yourself in the first place. i have enough tiny deaths looking at the rising water level in the toilet bowl and wondering how you're going to explain that one. i have enough experience in which containers hold vomit best. to double bag. to never purge down a sink because you'll end up sifting through it with your bare hands. i know the feeling of the reluctance to purge and the inevitability of it all. of crippling embarrassment when you cough too loudly in the public stall you're bent over in. does everyone know? does anyone think about bulimia like i do?