I miss my eating disorders

I used to be fat.  Really fucking fat.  Like 5′ 3″ and 187 pounds fat.  And then some boy I had a crush on made a mean comment about my weight and I went straight home and threw out every single item of food in my apartment.  I decided to stop eating.  Then I decided to exercise obsessively.  The pounds melted away along with the shame of being fat.  It was wonderful!

The compliments about how great I looked started rolling in and I had a surge of confidence that felt as good as cocaine rushing through my bloodstream.  Oh, and I also started using cocaine because it turns out you don’t feel like eating when you’re fucked up. I would buy jeans from The Gap and within a week they would be too small so I would take them back and secretly “exchange” them for a smaller size in the dressing room.  I never looked at this as stealing but more as a means of trading.

In the meantime I graduated college and moved to Seattle.  Things were going fabulously until my hair started coming out in clumps and I began passing out on my way to work.  Turns out my diet actually had a name and it was called anorexia.  I already knew this but I always associated that term with supermodels so it took me a long time to accept the Kate Moss diagnosis.  My boyfriend threatened to break up with me if I didn’t stop obsessively working out and counting my calories.  I even knew how many calories were in a tablespoon of semen.  Yep, I was that serious about staying under 1200 calories a day.  That often determined whether I spit or swallowed.

I shoud note that my boyfriend at the time was also the same guy I had pined away for when I was a fat girl.  He moved away and we didn’t see each other for several months so when he returned I was only half of the person I was, literally.  What I had lost in weight I had gained in self-confidence. He would tell me the reason he was suddenly attracted to me now was because of my self-assurance but I know it was probably because I wasn’t a fatty anymore.

So to make him happy I started eating again but just in small amounts.  I would weigh myself every single morning and if the scale went above 100 I would panic.  To counteract my eating I would secretly exercise more but he caught on to my tricks.  The scale hit 105.  I was terrified of him dumping me so then I had another idea.  I’ll just purge after I eat.

This also has a name and is called bulimia…and then there’s the fancy bulimia anorexia nervosa.  It sounds like an exotic dish at a Mexican restaurant but it’s basically just a cycle of starvation, followed by a binge and then topped with a purge.  I quickly discovered how much I enjoyed eating 12 doughnuts all at once and then throwing them up.  It was a win-win!  It was exhilerating and tiring all at once.  I could have my cake and throw it up too.  This all worked well for about a year and then my boyfriend came home from work early.  I had my head in the toilet and an empty bakery box by my knees.  It didn’t take much for him to figure out what had been going on and why I always had busted blood vessels in my eyes.

I started seeing a psychologist who specialized in eating disorders and eventually it resolved itself.  The relationship with the guy didn’t last but my relationship to food improved.  I have the ability to eat normally without the desire to starve myself or binge/purge. But I don’t like this.

I miss the need to obsessively exercise two hours a day and wear a size 0.  I miss surviving days on only carrots dipped in mustard.  I miss annihilating five pounds of baked goods in one sitting and then flushing them goodbye before they make it to my ass.

I want my fancy Mexican dish back honestly.


Effing Working

This post is for my friends who text me between the hours of 8am-5pm Monday thru Friday and ask me “what are you up to?”

I’m working. It’s pretty simple.  I have an 8-5 job during the week and I have Saturdays and Sundays off.  This is the schedule of an adult with health insurance and 401k benefits. I am not saying I like this schedule or that I like being an adult because it means I have to be in bed no later than Midnight, so if you text me Sunday-Thursday night at 3am and don’t hear back from me, then it is because I am sleeping.  I am sleeping because I have to get up early.  I realize if you are texting me at 3am then you don’t have a 6:30am alarm set or maybe you just don’t give a fuck, or maybe someone died.

This Monday thru Friday gig has been my schedule for over 15 years.  It hasn’t changed and it will not change unless I am lucky enough to be discovered by someone looking for a sub-par writer, and I can create my own schedule…which means I would work a few hours a day and spend the rest of my time reading, watching TV, playing with my dog or pet rats and drinking.  If by chance you are someone looking for such talent then please know I will freelance write about mostly anything except animal cruelty.  That’s off the table.  I’ll even write about how awesome your shampoo makes my scalp feel even if I don’t use your shampoo.  I have no problem lying.

Receiving the “what are you up to?” text while I am suffering and withering away at a soulless job is taunting and cruel. It should be noted that I use the term “working” loosely because typically I am not actually working on work stuff but I am cruising the Internet for free documentaries, essays and TED Talks.  Or I might just be watching my dog at daycare and writing.  But the point is that I am trapped in an unending Groundhog Day-like cycle of Hell.

It’s okay friends because you are not the only offenders.  My mom also calls me during my normal work hours and opens the conversation with “what are you doing?”  I simply respond with the same answer I have been using for years: I’m working.

The Purge

My Hulu binges keep getting interrupted by the same fucking trailer for The Purge: Election Year.  I’m too cheap to upgrade my subscription and generally I don’t mind the ads because it gives me a chance to pour some whiskey and get more string cheese.  However this Purge preview is getting really obnoxious because it lasts entirely too long and looks like something Slipknot would create, only much worse. What annoys me the most is the failed attempt to look like a sexy and edgy movie.  The trailer shows a bunch of blood-covered idiots wearing masks reminiscent of the old carny days, and these images are juxtaposed with people who resemble the typical Wal-Mart shopper/Trump supporter talking about how they too purged for the good of the country. The snippet with some masked bitch seductively licking the blood off a knife is what really burns my vagina like a raging case of chlamydia.

I haven’t watched any of the previous Purge films because I’m too busy viewing something meaningful and culturally significant, such as all six seasons of The Jersey Shore or 16 and Pregnant.  I haven’t watched any of the 18 Saw movies either because it’s just shock gore, and frankly the horror genre has become saturated by these underwhelming and unimaginative films.  I’m currently questioning whether or not I should even call

To be fair I like the premise behind The Purge and culling the herd at least once a year is a fantastic idea!  Fuck, I’d make it once a month.   I would probably start by purging the creators of this series and from there I would go after terrible writers such as the 3rd grader who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey.  On a side note check out the link below courtesy of The Stranger which is one of the best sources of news and entertainment on the planet, and just one of the many reasons I miss Seattle.

Fifty Terrible Lines from Fifty Shades of Grey

My point is that a great idea has been ruined by poor execution and representation.  If the idea is to kill people with no consequences then why would you wear a fucking mask, unless you just like masks…which I happen to love but I’m not going to risk getting blood on my squirrel head.  I also find it very doubtful that all of these deranged murderous people would all love masks enough to wear them during killing sprees. The eye holes never seem to match up correctly and they don’t breathe well…that’s a terrible combination if you’re out and about stabbing people or chopping off heads with a guillotine.  Yes, they actually show this in the preview and it looks just as retarded as it sounds.

Maybe Hulu is purposefully running this trailer ad nauseam  because they want us all to upgrade our subscriptions to avoid the ads, but then that wouldn’t make sense because Hulu makes money off ads??  Anyway, the point is that I needed to purge my anger towards my shows being fucking interrupted by this ridiculous clusterfuck atrocity of a movie.

I don’t feel any better by the way…the trailer came on while I was composing that last paragraph.




I think I might have a problem

I watch my dog incessantly.  The addiction started when I began taking him to doggy daycare.  I would pull up their webcams on my second monitor while at work and consequently get nothing done.  I would stalk him throughout the day and become anxious whenever he went off camera for more than a few minutes.  He got in trouble once for playing too rough and had to sit in time out.  Then they forgot he was in time out and left him there for half the fucking day which didn’t even make sense because he is a docile and loving creature.   Time out isn’t why I shell out $28/day.   I spend that money so he can play and socialize…and also so I can spy on him whenever I want.  So this led me to start calling the daycare whenever he disappeared for any length of time…10 minutes became my threshold.  People would come into my office to talk about some mundane work related bullshit and I would interrupt them by pointing at my computer screen and saying something like “Look!  My dog is in the swimming pool!  I always thought he hated water.”  In other words please don’t bother me with work because I’m watching dog TV.

This obsession eventually led to me installing security cameras in my house so I could check on him while I was getting drunk at the bar or punishing myself with a trip to Costco.  At first I would check in every hour or so, and then that became every half hour which eventually became every 15 minutes.  I had to increase the data plan on my phone.  Now when I check in and don’t see him for more than 20 minutes I assume something terrible has happened. Maybe I left the toilet seat up and he drowned.  I don’t even know how this would be possible because he’s a big fucking dog and logically this makes no sense, and he isn’t a toilet dog.  I also envision Michael Vick breaking into my house and stealing him as bait for dog fighting. Or what if I accidentally dropped some Adderall on the floor which he ingested, and then became so focused on licking his ass that he broke his neck.

He goes to a different daycare now and they have an outdoor area with fake grass, a swimming pool and water fountains.  They also have a really boring room with nothing in it except for overweight attendants.  Both of these areas are equipped with cameras which means I’m still highly unproductive at work.  It’s pretty obvious he prefers the outdoor area because he interacts with the other dogs and tries to bite the water shooting out of the fountains.  When he is indoors he looks extremely disappointed and gazes longingly at the dogs outside, wanting to be one of them.  So today I saw him wasting away inside and decided to call the daycare.  I told them my dog would prefer to be outside and that I watch him ALL day while I’m at work…in other words I know exactly what you all are doing every minute of the day, therefore you need to let my dog outside because I’m watching you, and I will know if you are fucking lying to me.  He’s outside now and splashing around in the water.  This makes me happy.

Social Etiquette and a Discourse on Public Restrooms

Dante’s Inferno is missing a circle of Hell.  He left off the 10th circle which is the restroom at my place of work (which is actually the 11th circle but another story for another day).  Since he isn’t around to revise his little opus I guess I’ll write this section which I would aptly call “What the fuck is wrong with your colon…and why does your vag smell like Pike’s Fish Market?”

I work in an office with Pentagon level security requiring us to swipe our badge at least three times before even entering our suite of secrets.  One might get the impression I do something really fucking important.  I don’t.  I work for a company that bulldozes lovely forests full of majestic wildlife and beauty.   And in its place we construct architectural atrocities to satisfy the American obsession with consumerism. I envision the scenes from Lord of the Rings when the Orcs pull down all of the trees and set everything on fire. That’s basically what we do but in a more discreet manner that involves ribbon cuttings, live music and bunch of other bullshit.  We cater to bargain hunters seeking fancy ass handbags which are still grossly overpriced or people like me who won’t spend $120 on a pair of Banana Republic jeans when I can get the same exact pair for $40 at their outlet.

You might also think we would have our own bathrooms considering the measures we take to keep non-employees out of our secret little cult (and I use the word “cult” because everyone working here is drinking Jim Jones’ punch and buying into this crap).  But we don’t have our own toilets.  We have to share public restrooms with various medical offices also located in our building.  It should be noted that one of these medical providers is cardiology.  This means the majority of patients are morbidly obese, and oddly enough so are the staff…not the doctors, but just the skanky women who answer the phones and the nurses who communicate as though they barely made it through the 5th grade.  My own doctor’s nursing assistant weighs about 400 pounds and breathes like Darth Vader.  I’m pretty sure she keeps a steady supply of Big Lots’ brand cheese balls in the pockets of her scrubs…and yet she gets to tell people they need to lose weight and lower their cholesterol.  Kind of hard to take seriously coming from a mouth that has probably ingested an entire stick of butter in one sitting.  I’m digressing…

Right now you’re thinking to yourself “get to the fucking point because the title of this blog is misleading!”  I will but I just feel like atmospheric background information is important.  I’m setting the scene.  I should also clarify that we have a few employees of our own with various gastrointestinal issues including but not limited to IBS and Crohn’s Disease.  These are just fancy ways of saying someone has to shit often and it is usually catastrophic for their asshole.  And also traumatic for anyone unfortunate enough to be in the bathroom when Enola Gay drops the bomb decimating all life.

I understand that restrooms shouldn’t smell like that wonderful Eucalyptus Mint Bath & Body Works candle or Ryan Gosling’s neck. Don’t fret Eva because I’ve never actually smelled Ryan’s neck but I’ve had impure thoughts about being in a Chinese Finger cuff situation with him and that guy who plays the serial killer in that awesome show The Fall. The entire purpose of a bathroom is to provide a private place for us to empty the rancid rotting contents of our bladders and intestines.  That’s fine and I completely support having such facilities because otherwise we’d all be running around randomly shitting and pissing everywhere, sort of like my pet rats who just can’t seem to grasp litter box training.  And they’re supposed to be the dogs of the rodent world.  I think I got duds.

But what happens in our restrooms is not typical body content elimination…I’m not really sure what the fuck it is.  All I know is that at least 75% of the time our restrooms smell like someone who is lactose intolerant ate a sundae from Coldstone Creamery, followed it up with a few 7-Layer burritos from Taco Bell, swung through Sheets and got one of those gas station egg salad sandwiches with bad mayonnaise, and finally shoved a can of mackerel up her pussy and allowed it to marinate for several hot steamy days in July…while also failing to shower…in the past 3 weeks.  The smell of rancid shit is one thing, but then you combine that with dirty swat and you’ve got something equivalent to Agent Orange, or maybe tear gas since it will make you fucking cry instantly, and then years later you’ll find out you’ve got lung cancer from breathing in poop particles and dirty twat bacteria.  This is probably how I am going to die.

If you are one of the unlucky ones who happens to be in the bathroom when the shit goes down and the stench of an unwashed vag hangs in the air…no seriously, you can actually see it hanging in the air because it’s so thick, then you immediately come back to the safety of your very secure suite and warn the others.  It has become such a problem that we’ve developed a series of hand gestures and elaborate sounds like those of chimps warning other chimps of imminent danger.  We have also identified some of the repeat offenders so if we see them making their way down the hall towards the bathroom then we avoid the restrooms, up to a 30 foot radius minimum for at least 30 minutes.  We do this at the expense of our own bladders because the threat of a burning and painful UTI is preferable to breathing in toxic ass/pussy stink.

There are several other restrooms in this building that are more private, so it seems like if you know your colon is about to have a blowout like you ate an entire box of Fiber One and bad sushi, then you would have the common decency to spare the others and go off like an animal does when it knows it is dying.

Secondly, if your lady purse smells like beached sea life left in the hot and humid  Florida sun to “melt” then you’d surely know, wouldn’t you?  Maybe some of these women are just too fat to bend over and pull back the curtains, or maybe they have those really long drapes that hit the floor, giving the illusion of higher ceilings, although in this case it just makes your pussy look like a flat tire made of rare roast beef…smothered in Horsey sauce.  Or maybe everything smells like freshly baked cookies to them and that’s why they eat all the time.  Fuck.  I just made myself feel slightly nauseous but you really need to “see” this since you don’t have the displeasure of smelling it.  I wish I could bottle the scent and send it to everyone I hate.  Mike Rowe should do a Dirty Jobs episode and be a gynecologist at a free clinic. He could spelunk into one of those tunnels of terror and we may never see him again.  I wonder if gynecologists ever have to use those chip clips to hold things back in place?  Or is it like asking someone to hold your hair back while you puke because you are too busy gripping the toilet so your entire face doesn’t fall into the soupy water? Maybe that’s why the doctor always has an assitant in the room.  Note to self: ask my doctor about these questions because she did that whole “Doctors without Boarders” thing so I bet she has witnessed some horrific things.

I know this blog is entirely too long so here are the takeaways from my rant:

  1.  If you have chronic gastric issues then have a plan.  Map out the secret bathrooms in the building and use those.  Or just quit.  Or kill yourself.  I really don’t care…just stop shitting in the only restroom on my floor.
  2. Loofah your lady parts.  I mean really get in there and don’t ignore the folds.  And if you’re fat you probably have lots of them, sort of like all those double chins you have. This means you’re probably sweatier than others too and so your odor is that much worse.  Wash your puss daily…that’s all I’m asking.