Fuckin' Gluttony, NY

Ate myself into a stupor Monday night, such that I woke up at 5:30 in the a.m., whimpering and listening to my friend hacking her lungs out upstairs. And it wasn't even the shits or the vomits, it was just this terrible sense that I'd gone too far and that maybe my stomach would never be the same.

I rubbed my belly clock-wise like my yogis have taught me. (Sort of like they taught me how to be moderate and mindful in all things. Such as eating.) It made me feel a little better.

Spent Tuesday out and about and was only able to eat a fraction of what I can typically put down because 1) my stomach wanted to vomit itself out of my body and crawl away (as stomachs are wont), shaking a fist and cursing me and 2) my kidneys were melting.

It's Wednesday afternoon, and I'm still feelin' skeeved about food, so I'll leave you with Monday's Exhibit B:


Bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit bullshit, at Ray's, 3rd and St. Mark's.

Why did I eat this?

Because I'm a fucking asshole. A Jesus killer. A motherfucker. A son of a donkey-raping dog.

It was the single biggest mistake of my life.

I'll never forgive myself. Never.