The eating disorder speaks

You should fast tomorrow.
You're so fat. You fat cow.
What the fuck were you doing, binging like that, anyway?
Yeah,I know you were tired. That doesn't give you the right to eat chocolatey sugar until you're stuffed to the fucking gills. I don't even care that you did get the energy you needed from it. You're a pig. A fat motherfucking PIG.

You need to go to the gym tomorrow, too. Desperately.
Also,you should skip off going to the center tomorrow, because if you see all those people eating you're going to want to eat, and the LAST thing you fucking need is to eat, you goddamned FATTY HOG.
You have to burn off all those disgusting calories you consumed tonight. Disgusting calories that are going to make you blow up into even more of a balloon than you already are.

You can feel how your stomach bulges out. How your unrestrained breasts press down on it, so the whole front of your torso is like one large roll extending all the way down your front. You can feel, with a simple movement of your hand, all the fat that pudges out, everywhere.

The love handles that stick out from the sides of your middle, extending visibly underneath any even semi-tight shirt that you ever wear.
The pieces of extra flab on the inside of each thigh, rubbing together near the very top of your legs when you walk.
The bit that you can grab on the bottom of each upper arm, even though your arms are supposed to be the skinny part of you, you goddamned fatty. Ugh. Even your fucking ARMS are getting fat!!

You disgust me. You pig. Pig pig pig.

Why do I bitch and complain at you about this?
Because being fat makes you unworthy.
You know it's true.

You try to ignore me -- you try to tell yourself that what is inside is really important. And maybe that's true. But you're starting to realize the thing that I've always known: that, really, essentially, there's nothing inside. You're not motivated to achieve. You're not brilliant. You're not gorgeous. You're not going to be any sort of really important person in life. Sometimes you think you might as well just give up trying, and I think you're right. And every time you get to that line of thinking, I am always here, waiting for you. Whenever you decide to acknowledge your deeper feelings, your worst feelings, I am here. Don't you think there must be a reason for that?

Sometimes I think you were destined to go back to me. To be mine.
We could make a fine pair, you and I. You provide the shiny tap-dancing shoes, and I provide the puppet strings. You clean the leather painstakingly, I plan out the dance moves, and together we make a fabulous team -- and you get to dance down the gorgeous polished floor, all light and air and rhythm, and maybe finally feel happy and free.

Too bad you still sometimes think this is an empty promise. Because I really think we could have a future together. A beautiful one.

Just think about it.