AUGUST FIFTEENTH TWOTHOUSAND NINE

I feel like a gay man that's just all of a sudden decided he is going to try and like vagina. Does. Not. Compute. Everything I see, food or not, reminds me of my eating disorder. Every single waking moment is FULL of food, barf, food, barf, sleep.

For example:

My lovely roommate bought me an American Apparel skirt off the clearance rack. It's really cute and everything, but it's too LONG. And normally I like long skirts to cover up my big ol' knees, but I can't purge in this skirt. It's ankle length, so I'm surely going to trip over it when I go to kneel over the toilet. And it's going to slip and I'm going to hit my chin on the rim of the bowl (again). Since my eating disorder is more important to me than the adorable and thoughtfulk gift my friend gave me, I simply MUST return it.

So I did. She told me this morning that she wants to wear our matching American Apparel skirts to my family barbeque on Tueday. I told her that would make us look like lesbians. And while this is slightly true, the fact that we are twentysomethings that live together and go to each other's family barbeques is a little bit more lesbonic than wearing the same style skirt out and about.

I'm a bad person.