TELL.

I want you to listen to No. 5, by Hollywood Undead, when you read this part.  Don't insult the band.  Don't insult their masks. Don't insult the song.  Respect my wishes.  Respect the dead.

Hunger eats away at things, trying to cure itself.  Trying to muffle itself.  But it can't.  Nothing can.  Hunger can't stop itself, if you don't want to stop it yourself.  And then, it takes over.

Attack, and the next thing you know is you're hearing the bag crinkle.  Loudly, quite loudly.  But the outside was dark around an empty driveway, so the orange stained your fingers, because you didn't care.  The orange stained your fingers because you never bothered to wipe them off on anything.  Doritos were disgusting.  Digusting.  Fat and calorie ridden, completely artificial, and horrible for even the healthiest person in the human race.  But, they were bright orange, even when slightly digested.  And, you know what that translates to in my mind?

Perfect, perfect marker.

The strange thing about Doritos is that you know for a fact they're not really made of cheese.  Or corn.  And, yet, you tell yourself that cheese and corn are good for you, so you eat Doritos instead of potato chips, because you think Doritos aren't as bad for you.  But, the truth is that you're wrong.  

They're just bad for you in a different way.  And, when you're finally satisfied that you'd consumed enough by swallowing your disgust to mark, you move on through the pain that's becoming physical, too, and throw the nauseating sin into the closet, behind the sketchers that you've long since grown out of.  

Your mother had bought you the shoes for track, after you promised you were never, ever going to quit, because the shoes cost fifty dollars.  

And, the next day, you quit.  And, your mom didn't even get angry at you, or angry with you, because it was your birthday.

And, you hadn't planned that, even though it seemed like you had.  But, either way, your mother didn't care.

At least, that was my situation.

Every ounce of strength, seeped through the side, and with all my weight against the closet door, it slid closed, and then with someone else's strength, I sprinted downstairs.

Track does wonders, even if it's only for a week.  

If that.  

The stairs were creaky, and I slipped more than stepped off of the last one, but the driveway outside was still filled with only night.  

Somewhere, families are welcoming in their new neighbors.

Somewhere, a boy saves a girl's life.

To me, this is just a Wednesday when I was barefoot enough not to slide on the kitchen linoleum.

To me, this was a Wednesday when I could rip the door of the fridge open, and pick up the diet coke bottle with two hands.  

When I could let the door shut by itself behind me, while I unscrewed the cap and gulped half the bottle straight from the top, until I felt my stomach would explode, and feel the fizziness burn down, more like fire or vodka than soda, and let my eyes water.  Not because I was sad, though.  When I was pigging out, I was numb.  

Nothing.  

At all.

Most opportunities were nonexistent, or limited, considering he would probably want everything there when he got back, but being drunk wasn't exactly the best feeling in the world, and I avoided it like the plague, because I like control.  

With Five of us, It was twice.  

With four, three times.  

With three, none.

With two, just once.  

Never again.

No, now I'm totally straightedge.  

Now, pass me a cig.

Today was the day I could pull open the freezer, and let the literally frozen air overtake my own supposedly ninety-eight-point-six-degree-Fahrenheit until I convulse.  

My physical temperature when I was eating everything edible I could find was (as far as I knew) normal for any other time.  My emotional temperature could always be classified as cold.  Numb from feelings and numb from the world around me, and numb from the world within me, which I sometimes like to call Hydrochloria.  

Then, the world swirled and meshed itself together with the molten memory, and then became one unstoppable liquid to scald every part of my mind it flowed into.

So, of course, I had to balance this out with icecream.

The container that was in the back of the freezer was cold.

My shaking fingers, cold.

My heart, within a convulsing chest, was cold.
The frozen fat was moist and hard, but I dug in with my bare fingers.  Vicious.  Aggressiveness graced me only a few certain times in my life, and when it did, I held on with blistering hands and white knuckles.  

My fingers, immediately, stung.  But, who cares?  Because I couldn't.  I wouldn't care.  Because, by now, I'd become an atheistic Christmas tree:  peeing green and coughing up red.  So, fearing frostbite from frozen fat is more than just an alliterative sentence.  

It's the image of a fifteen-year-old girl, stuffing her mouth full of solidified liquid heart attack, and the illustration on the next page, with the caption 'as fingers fear freezer-burn', and the word from the author in the back that makes your spine shiver, and your hands stop shoving the heart attack into your own mouth, and down your throat, and the fine line between sub-zero and unbearable heart disintegrated inside the lining of your stomach.

When you can't tell the difference between hot and cold, you're not like one of those psycho kids that can't feel pain.  

You can argue that you are.  But you'd be wrong.  Because you're human, so you're always wrong.  And, after a point, descriptions no longer fit, and dictionaries become liars.  

Violence floods your hands, and you scrape the container clean.

Through the nausea, the stabbing pain my stomach, or intestines, or whatever vital organ that stabbing pain was in, I considered the fact with a slight humorous outlook, that my esophagus had become a two-way street.  

And the pain in my fingertips could only exist if I was focused on it, and unfortunate me focused on it, because the food was gone.  So, I doubled over, but that worsened it, and knives turned to swords.  

Blindly, I grabbed for the bottle.  

And, irony unfolded, as diet carbonation hit highly-caloric saturated suicide, in my stomach.

And, somehow, I found myself kneeling in front of the toilet, in the bathroom.

Hydrochloric acid.

Cold ceramic.

Pressure.

Lifting.

The unsanitary aspect of my forehead resting on the toilet seat.  From an outsider's point of view, I probably looked drunk, but I wasn't.  Not by alcohol, at least.  

The sixth time my shoulders racked, and my stomach lurched, and my entire existence felt like it was trying to come out of my throat, nothing happened.  Dry-heave.  When the cones in my sclera, or pupils, or irises, singled out the orange in the toilet, I understood why.  

For good measure, another dry-heave.  Baseline.  Steady, Jame, you'll give yourself an ulcer.  Don't push it.  Remember prealgebra?  Remember range?  Stay within it.  Forget the outliers.

Dizziness is kind of like the feeling you get when you stand up really quickly, after you've been sitting for a while, and you're drunk, and you've also got epilepsy, and you're in a room full of strobe lights.

Hands pushed off the sink.