All day at work all I want is a drink.

A drink to forget (you hurt my feelings, boy) and a drink to numb (work and life and the pain of simply being) and a drink to forgive (you can't help that I'm so sensitive) and mostly, a drink to sleep.


So I leave work early, pick up some Stolichnaya -

Return to an empty house - I hate when people are here, I hate being alone, I hate the chipped walls and my dying plants and the stacked beer bottles by the sink that leave the kitchen smelling like yeast -

Pour myself a drink and retreat to my haven.

My room smells like cigarettes and perfume, like antique tears and musty books and velvet, and I feel safe here. My bed is a little nest, pillows and clothing and comforters piled and shaped to feel like bodies holding me close.

I ate alright today. Stayed below 300, which is okay, not good, not empty, not clean.

I fall asleep around 8 and wake up ravenous - half asleep I'm in the car, I'm driving, I'm at the McDonald's drive through, I'm shoveling fat and grease and dirty food in my mouth and I'm so full it's the pain that really wakes me. I could almost cry it hurts so much.

Whatever. I could punish and purge but that wouldn't solve anything, so I just smoke in bed, drink some more, listen to the Hold Steady and think about him.

Wishing he was here. He would fill me up. I wouldn't be hungry anymore.

I never think about food when I'm thinking about fucking. Binging on sex doesn't leave dimples in your ass or bloat in your belly.

Tomorrow I will fast. I will fast, and I will clean this house so that my house and I are both clean and empty and sterile and bleached white, and I will water my plants so they do not die, so at least something in this house has a little radiance to give.