For Best Results

For best results, weigh first thing in the morning, unclothed.

What a fucking lie. There was no good result, much less a best result. In fact all i got was a number that disgusted me. One that made my heart stop beating and fall into the pit of my rounded gut. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Sucked my cheeks in and blew them out. I sat on the side of the bathtub, knees together, and frowned at the lack-of-gap between my thighs. Looked down at my belly that rolled over the top of my jeans. I stood up and climbed on top of the tub-wall. Feet together, thighs pressed against each other, my soft flesh poured into my jeans that are uncomfortably snug now. (They werent snug 30 seconds ago, until the number that flashed in bright red on the digital face of the stupid scale stared up at me, laughing, mocking.) Turn to the side, im round. I have an ass and hips. And a fucking belly.

And i slump over onto the cold floor. Wishing with everything (every pound) of myself that i could be good. That i could be better. That i could not take up so much space. That i could not waste so much (space). That i could just lose the 14 pounds that ive suddenly acquired since i got back to nashville. That i could train my body to stop being so needy. To stop being real, solid. To stop making so much noise when i walk, stop being able to hear my foot steps. Wishing my stomach would stop screaming at me.

I was pretty drunk last night, and i ate a bit after doing so well all day, keeping my needs in check. And then i panicked. I felt guilty. GUILTY. Horribly bad and gross and awful. So i stood over the toilet and emptied out again. (ive only done this a handful of times in my life. Its very disgusting.) i smoked a cigarette, wrapped in a blanket, on my front step. Then finished off my winee and curled into myself, under three blankets, a pillow over my face.

Something happens. Someone pours gasoline in your bloodstream, replaces the life juice with a new sort of speed. Turns on a bright light that screams from behind your eyes, so you dont look half dead all the time. And then the race is on. Starvation is a funny thing. When you arent used to it, it seems to zap you of all energy, makes you sluggish and tired. However, when Edie's in the divers seat, she puts the pedal to the metal. You go from 0-60 in the blink of an eye. Before you realize it, youre working 51 hours a week, and volunteering 16 before work, and youre walking back and forth downtown, just to keep moving. Youre doing leg lifts by the hundreds, and pumping those 5lb weights to ever fast paced song on your itunes. Youre running in place and doing imaginary jump-roping-motions in your living room. Youre cleaning, sweeping, vacuuming, and scrubbing the toilet while you change the sheets and fold the laundry. Youre walking to check the mail, even though its sunday, and the mail doesnt come on sunday. You stare at the refrigerator, and consider dumping its contents in the garbage, but get distracted. Back on the scale, back on the side of the tub. Pinching poking proding. Move to the living room. Bouncing up and down on the floor because you must keep moving. Lie down, 150 more leg lefts, left and right, then 100 up and down, and 50 squats. 300. Pump those weights. Runrunrun.

The whole world, the whole universe, everything from the grass to the moon suddenly makes perfect sense. (my next thought: im exhausted.)

But ill wake up again tomorrow, and stand on the scale. Then ill guzzle my coffee and walk to the bus stop, and ill shake and giggle nervously like a fucking maniac as i count the street signs to 4th avenue and yank the bell. Run to the door, try not to fall, thank the driver, hop onto the sidewalk, light a cigarette and walk towards broadway. Open the door to big time boots and smilesmilesmile and laugh and joke and giggle and make fun, and act like everything is just peachyfuckingkeen. Towards the middle of my shift, i want to go smoke, but i havent told my coworkers ive started again, so i say "im going to get a latte" and run out the door, cigarette and $2 shoved in my coat pocket. Get past the window, light it and walk 3 blocks to mike's ice cream, and order a plain coffee.

Jenne will announce that her lunch, a frozen salisbury steak smeared with gloopy brown sauce and freeze dried onions, with a side of macaroni and cheese is "so good! And only 430 calories!" (she'll eat it with a 20 oz coke on the side that has 250 calories, and one of my psychedelic purple cupcakes that i brought in last week, which is at least 300 calories. Which makes her total 980.) and ill smile, and pat myself on the shoulder, like it somehow makes me a better person for having only drank my plain coffee, for a total of 0 calories.

On the inside though, im beating myself up for being such a terrible, ugly person. Because it doesnt matter what she eats, she doesnt NEED to lose weight. Shes gorgeous, and not fat, and shes not needy, or stupid or ugly. And she can sing and write music, and dance, and she used to be a cheerleader and in beauty pageants and everyone loves her.

And you wish desperately to be anyone else but whoever this girl wearing cowboy boots pretends to be. That you could just be sucked into some window or vortex that would suddenly open up in the cloudy, grey sky, and disappear forever.

Im so fake.