i'm gonna throw up. i'm different, a dream. no panic is left. i've called everyone it's inappropriate for me to call. when i swallow it tastes of stomach acid and 3 packs of cigarettes. i haven't slept/rested/dreamt in weeks. my stomach is nauseas from what would seem a lack of food and a drop of 5 pounds in 2 days. no. my stomach speaks the tongues of my mania; when it races my stomach flips. i get an idea, my back tightens. never {moreso} before has my body been a diagram for how i'm thinking. old 92 year old women die. she died. and i've lost 20 pounds. puke. shut up. i never ask how the spinning must spin in their minds. nor do i ever expect anyone without it to grasp the intensity of a night without my bottles. it's been almost 3 weeks without. my body is my greatest achievement and i don't feed her or i throw her up. taste only your own tongue and the residue from a sandwich at 4am. i am doing things as i have to. don't read this and think you have any idea about what any of this means. i havent slept in 36 hours. the only thing soothing is the feel of the inside of my nails. the girl you think you knew never even existed, tyler.

2002-10-05, 11:11 p.m.
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