Get Ready, Get Set

Here's to the limbo that loves me no matter how much I say I don't love it back. Inhaling and exhaling ethanol in grateful breaths, because I will only feed my body with liquid chemicals. Coffee and diet coke, anyone?


I saw my therapist for the last time this year on Monday. And my group, last Wednesday. Ten months she said it's been. Crazy. I can't even tell if it sounds too short or too long.


Prom tomorrow, science research camp Monday morning. Six weeks of what I'm going to pray will be fun and stimulating and busy and away from this damn house. Then college, 4 years time. This week better end.
Cross your fingers.

My mother is mad at me because I don't do anything right. Momentarily, that is. When I try to say I'm sorry after the fact--something I never do, but I figured it would be the "effective" thing to do in the language of my therapist--she rejects it. Just brought up my failure anew, from the depths of amnesia. Fuck me, then. I should have let her make things all dandy again in an hour, like I usually do. While I lock myself in my room and continue to feel like shit. Play music about anorexia and death and drug addicts; not that she ever notices.

I'm so sick of this two-faced shit. How bout I stop eating, kill two birds with one stone? Maybe you'll notice something after a few days. And, I won't be leeching off your grocery bills.