I sat down at the table, and sighed.
Before I begin, let me tell you something: I hate it. I hate eating. It makes me want to choke myself and go run some laps and lose some of this extra fucking weight I've carried on my body since I was 15. But I don't. I always just sit there and keep eating, stuffing my belly until I'm bloated far beyond healthy measures, unable to stop, until I puke or build up enough willpower to stop myself.
So here I was again. This is where the madness happened. It was truly insane: I kept on eating, hoping to feel better, but I never did. Why should I expect it to change this time? The table was set up, and all I had to do was start. On the table sat a large bowl of mashed potatoes, and with all the food in it weighed nearly five pounds. Behind that, leaning against the wall, was a mirror. It was set up so I could see myself at all times, to remind myself how much of a pig and a sinner I was for being so fat. I always studied myself for a moment, just to help