Bags Full
Theresa came over on Sunday morning to collect her prize. I had invited her to help me with the changeover between old ways of eating and new ways of eating. I had plenty of food — fine food — that I’d no longer be eating. I had flavored yogurts and loaves of bread and frozen dinners. Cereals. I needed to get them out of the house or I would eat them. She lives in a big communal house with a bunch of punk kids who always need food. It was perfect. I imagined that we’d pack all of this food into one (or maybe two) plastic grocery bags full of the stuff, and send her on...
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You know it’s bad when the only image you can find to describe the scene is “needle to a vein” and all it involves is you, a super-duper-sized milkshake, and the slow-drip way you are sucking that thick, sweet, chocolatey goodness straight down your throat. Straight. Down. Your. Throat. Like, without even letting it touch your tongue. For forty-five minutes. Curled up in the corner of the couch. Needle to a vein.
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