I need my brown-red pony, I need to jump on my horse. I need it bad. I do. I am so damn uncomfortable. I am cranky. I am creaky. I am crackly, and not in a good way. I want my ibuprofin. I even emailed my doctor to tell him, “I have no bruises, and my bloodwork was good, so pretty please, can I just have a taste?”
Why oh why does the one pill that makes me feel GOOD have to be the one pill I am forbidden to take at this point?
I woke up in a cold sweat last night. I dreamt that I ate and I ate and I ate, and I kind of wanted to make myself throw up to alleviate the pressure, to take away some of the fear of fat, but I didn’t want to take a drive down Bulimia Road. I woke up feeling a strange and anxious mixture of full and hungry. I wasn’t sure if I had dreamt any of it, or if I had actually woken up in the middle of the night and eaten a box of Hostess Creme-Filled Cupcakes, a plate of Duncan Heinz double fudge brownies, a bunch of heart-shaped soft-baked chocolate chip cookies (I kid you not) and washed it down with a quart of Hawaiin Punch. And that was just the beginning.
In the dream, while all of this was going on, there was a background of terrorism – a bombing in an office which left my mother-in-law missing and presumed dead (impossible, since my mother-in-law doesn’t actually work in an office, or work at all, for that matter) and extreme sports – my family was participating in some sort of weird body-skiing program, whereby we “skiied” down the mountain using our bodies rather than skies. I, of course, was too busy eating to participate, although I did stop to watch the whole thing.
Where do these thoughts come from?!
I need my brown-red pony. I need to climb on and take a ride to Comfortville.