One day, I shall get out of tiny and expensive Singapore and own a horse. I”ll call him or her Engelvitze, Agn, Aleksei, Sovskii, Zovskii, Vladislav, Ianka, Antal, Iskalon, Askalon… On a Russian kick here btw.

Etienne, Tatomir. Or Romanian: Strigoi. Callicantzaro, Incubus/Succubus.

it’s these little things I’ve got to bear or else. my life is for nought.

And I was thinking, what’d I do without food?

still as immature as ever.

In my experience, the whole hand–that is four fingers sans the thumb, requires practice, ie. it doesn’t go down well unless one has been doing this for a while, for whatever reasons (mine was due to a dying gag reflex. Periodically, I had to put more fingers in but was limited by the circumference of my lips).

But commonly, people, ie. bulimics use two to three. Rarely one, because it doesn’t do the job as well as three. Gagging doesn’t come easy for some, especially when they don’t eat much before deciding to stick their heads down the toilet.

And then there’s the hands-free set. Now I’m gonna sound like I’m selling cell phones. Anyway, we are bulimics who puke without the use of the annoying hand-in-half-open-mouth shakey gesture. No hands, no hangers, no feathers that tickle a la Caesar (though he wasn’t bulimic, the Romans just love food too much. They probably weren’t afraid of getting fat, but of sploding their guts. reference-encyclopaedias). And that, I think, is another reason for my ire towards people-who-GESTURE.

We’re not messy, not with practice, oy.

But good news! I weigh 121.6, which is almost 20lbs down from my high weight, and 2 lbs down from my original when-i-was-17-and-pre-ed weight. Still fat but that’s changing eeever so slowly.

Sorry, I’m so brain dead. It sucks being so stupid and devoid of thought and imagination but… I think for now, in my short-sighted manner, I’d rather be stupid and thin. Qui veut la fin veut les moyens.

The silvery ambience settles around me, organic, pulsing flashes of muffled searchlights. Feels like a cold metal shroud, impersonal yet comforting–alone, dusk, wide expanse of roof on a skyscraper, close my eyes and there he is, large and real as life.

He gestures across the city below in a soundless, wing-tipped sweep, taking in the orange and darkening horizon, flickering stars gaining intensity, a pearly crescent of moon. Angel wings and sky meld at their very edges–they never will part. The days that once slid by unnoticed, in a druge of tedium start to shine in the darkening heavens: monochrome, 32-bit, high definition baby.

Silence was once white-noise of the urban landscape, now distilled into minute sources, 335 million-score tinny instruments making up the orchestra of souls worthy of every dying breath, oath and secret held dear in the collective human heart–he sings to all, to you. Tendrils of vibrant echo lilt and vaporize, elusive will-o-wisps, crystals of thought, idea, notion, musing–feathery cobwebs.

Darkness falls back in with order, logically and magically. As if a parting gift, your thoughts transcend your views, and you realize not belatedly: blessed are we, with heaven–right here and now.

I can say now that bulimia is stealing my sleep. Work I could have done during those nights were disregarded in favor of food. And by the time I was done cleaning up, I’d be too tired to concentrate and mostly fell asleep straight after.

Hah. Without bulimia, I’d still binge, or rather, eat way more than my physiology needs, and still be so conked out by the caloric overload and tryptophan receiving that I’ll fall asleep anyway.

That is an excuse. I really don’t want to give up throwing up, it’s my addiction. Precontemplative stage if I ever knew one. Funnily enough, I’ve been at this stage ever since the whole gamut of eating disorders started. Even through all the times I tried going to doctors on my own, which was quite often, averaging one new doctor per annum. I wasn’t looking to stop, I think, this throwing up, I was asking to be relieved of these responsibilities in my life that’s so unbearable for me that I needed to throw up to keep me from going mad. Didn’t realize it then, when I actually told the very first doctor I wanted to stop. He prescribed fluoxetine, which did help, but strangely, I hated it because it took away my binge appetite so… that was that. It was the thing that I needed to binge away that required stopping, or at least change my mindset about.

What is it? That elusive thing that eludes DEFINITION that I need to tackle but won’t because it’s too much work and so what if I overcame that, I’d still be weird and not accepted and unhappy with my state of existence and stuff.

All I can say now is that I’m (generally) afraid of facing IT. Sometimes my moods are good and I won’t though, and I’ll be fine. Sometimes I’ll just say screw it, and just do it, and I’ll be fine, albeit surprised about how well things went. And sometimes, I’ll run away–

Hah, I got down to my lowest weight(which is pretty fucking low thankyou), solely by bingeing and purging 4 times daily minimum. And I’m not talking about oh, I binged on a snickers bar!  but 4 pounds of food til I’m gagging. So .. what was I gonna prove? Yeah, that b/ping is not the only cause of my current fat state. But I won’t tell her. Has beens do not make any sort of future.

Granted, it is frustrating to see your daughter bingeing and purging every bleeding day. It gets on your nerves, the doggedness of the hand to mouth action, the single-mindedness of the toilet trips–which would be admirable if I had actually applied the persistence to other more important things like school and… school.

I had a minute of stunned silence in my head, all the while pretending to study. To cry or not to cry, is NOT a question. Damned if I will admit that she detonated a self-esteem bomb over my negative supply.

And guess what? She buys popcorn for me today, in a giant tub that sings in acapella: BINGE HERE!

Done some work. Questionnaire questions. Gotta do enzyme graphs and more reading for the consultation tomorrow.

How many times have I been called weird? Countless. And I reply with the truth: I’d rather be satisfied(is different from happy) and weird. It’s a big thing, this straying from the norm, everyone’s so occupied with being cool and in that they don’t realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. But I think some, at least, have actually incorporated that pretence seamlessly into their lives. And that’s fine; I can’t do it though, being this terribly solipsistic and passive person I am.

But truth is, I wouldn’t know what to do with free time other than binge and purge anyway.

Still gunning for the loss of bodily poundage even though it’s really slowing down–it needs more ENZYMES for the substrate to increase my rate of reaction! I know my biochemistry!

Feels like my glycogenesis has been stoked with all that simple sugars I absolutely love scrumptiousing through.
But funny enough, I’m also hoping for a lower reading. To the loo, to the loo.

Loving Orbital. And I think I’m starting to appreciate the (mis)use of tags.