The Bulimic Theories.

That would really make a nice book title, that. It has as nice a ring to it as The Vagina Monologues.

First off, if it was not already obvious, I will just say that I am not a doctor and I am not medically-trained. My only knowledge of first aid would be to stick alcohol swab to an open would, mainly because I have an insane supply of alcohol swabs from my facial piercings days and also because it makes me roar with laughter when the wounded receiver of alcohol swab yells in pain when pain was being transmitted from open wound, up the spine and to the brain where pain registers. That, and being awarded a gold medal for being able to dive 10 feet underwater in my pyjamas. That was a good thing, the whole pyjama garbage because when I do see a person drowning I will just say 'No, I have not got my jammies with me, so I will not brave the waters to save that person.' and in the process save my hair from frizzing up with all that moisture after it had just undergone an hour of intense straightening. Of course I am a natural swimmer. I am built like a whale with lots of blubber for floatation.

Now, the Bulimics. My theory is this: They have never been forced to starve during their early life. If they had understood hardship, they will not be throwing up good food that had costed an insane amount of money that penny-pinching families would have baulked at. They were never reminded of starving children in Somalia.

I have an issue with the latest starving children advert I saw during Red Nose Day some months back. There was an advert that had said 300 000 children die needlessly every year in Africa. Maybe more that 300 thousand. I was more concerned with that phrase 'Children die needlessly' as though there ever is a need for a child to die. The person who came up with that tagline needs to be shot in the arse with a double-barrelled shotgun. Unless of course, the child was a zombie and as said by Zomburbia, the fuckers need to be double-tapped.

I had tried Bulimia for just once. I knew that the moment I said, mid-hacking up, 'Oh shit, there goes that lush pie' that that was not the chosen career path for me. I was not meant to be a Professional Up-Chucker. I love food too much. And I love cooking just as much which is why now it is doubly hard for me to up-chuck post-dinner because then I'd be thinking about the hours I just slaved over the stove to flush it all down the loo, literally.

True, Bulimia and Anorexia are all disease of the mind. It's all up there, fueled by the many pictures vomited by the media. I'm sorry, I have no compassion for people with eating disorders. The only eating disorder I face is when I accidentally inhale the main before the starter. And if you can't respect food and the fact that there are starving people out there who would love some of your food that you can you know... Fuck off.

Even Jaz's 11 year old girl is calorie-counting now. And excuse me while I tell her that if you are skipping breakfast before school because you don't want to end up fat, then you are doomed because not only will you be starving during lessons, you would also be unable to concentrate during lessons. So, in short, my cupcake, you would be suffering from that all-consuming Phantom Fats disease of the mind and Stupid since you were not able to learn well in school. Not my child so I will not let myself get carried away with trying to educate her on why you should not starve yourself or stuff yourself and then hurl over the toilet bowl.

I remember when I was watching a documentary on Bulimics with my mother. She cried in horror when the woman stuck a toothbrush down her throat to make herself throw up after a massive buffet dinner.

WHY DID SHE DO THAT, asked Mother.

Why?

Because she must have a mother that won't shut up about her being an embarrassment because she's fat.

Just like you, you Closet Pagent Mum.

And what she said after was quite funny, really.

But you see, unlike her, you are fat. Like, really, really massive.

As I stared into space, feeling my life seeped out of me from every orifice, I wondered...

Where is my real mother and is she not looking at that girl with the eating disorder whom she thought was her daughter for the past 20 odd years wondering if she had picked up the wrong child at the maternity ward?

Yes, I would love to beat the shit out of this woman.

I have had a pee. And a fag. And a fresh cup of Tetleys. All is right in my world again. No plants were endangered.

Now. To roll another fag. Fuck it aye. We're all going to die and our souls will depart from ourPenal Gland and fuck knows where we'll end up in. Maybe in some pod surrounded by mucous. Just properly sat down, or passed out in bed, with Jaz and he insisted I watched The Matrix. And I did. And it had further filled my head with so much crap. It is bad enough that I think we are descendants of Aliens ala The Mission to Mars anyway. Now I have to contend with the fact that we might all be human and really we are all in mucous-filled pods. I love how he tries to educate me through films. We've watched fucking Snatch so many times it's ridiculous. And Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. I must know the awesomeness of English films and fuck all the Yank rubbish, he says.

But yes. As I was saying... Yeah, fuck it. We're all going to die. So might as well roll a fag and die doing something that seemed worthwhile to me. Any minute now Josh is going to burst through the bedroom door and ask me if he can pinch a few Rizlas. As though he can hear the crisp papers being pulled out slowly out of the little Rizla box-thing. Smoke, don't smoke. Drink, don't drink. All these patronizing twats telling me what to do or not do. And that look of horror as I light up. Fuck it, alright. My child died in the womb for no fucking reason anyway. So sod yous. I will light up. I mean, look at the state of the fucking world. At the rate that it's all going to bits, who wants to be around till 90 anyway. I don't want to be 90 and be humiliated when someone I don't remember being related to is wiping my arse. Then again, I might not even realize my arse was being wiped. Meh. Already I think that we are living longer than we should. Don't people used to pop off at 60 or something? I know of a few over 60s who should die at this stage. Like that old cock in that bus going up to Bushey train station telling me to get the fuck up so that we can sit when I was heavily pregnant. I'd gladly give up my seat to old people. Just not ones should calls me a 'Rude Child'. I'll give you rude, you old cock.

Then again, my Nan's pretty ancient. And she's cool. Oh, well...

Day 4 in the life of the jobless.

Horrible, horrible past four days, I must admit.

I am not enjoying this bloody vacation at all. All I've reaped out it are misery, more boredom and again, motherfucking emptiness.

I showered this afternoon. Finally. So yes, I should pat myself in the back for at least maintaining my personal hygiene. And I brush my teeth on a daily basis. Mainly because I've gone without brushing my teeth for two days and the third day when I woke up to suck on my first fag of the day, it tasted like utter horrendous shit. So yes, I'm simply brushing my teeth just so that I can continue layering my lungs with tar comfortably.

I have not looked at the papers for jobs. I have not gone and sent my resumes to various companies. I'm putting it off till past Easter. Excuses yes, but I don't really give much fuck now. Not yet at least.

It's not as though I enjoy waking up to nothingness. I wake up to Jarrod every morning and spend the next few hours laughing my head off with him. Great start to the day, one must admit. Then after that, he heads to bed and THEN, I'm left to stare ahead thinking about what the fucking hell am I going to do with my day.

Today, my mother was not working so, the day was spent pretty much with me avoiding her. Until eventually it got too much for the both of us that we both took 3 spoonfuls of cough syrup and passed out next to each other in the living room. Irony.

I have managed to slip back into my former anti-social self. I don't talk at home, I don't answer phone calls, I don't reply text messages. There is only so much 'I heard what happened to you. I'm sorry. We'll miss you.' I can take. I did not overdose on some fucking class A drug, for crying out loud. I get it, alright? I miss you guys more, for fuck's sake. I'm here at home staring at a bloody pitbull and thinking round the fucking clock as to how on fucking earth can I get myself out of this bloody HOT AND FUCKING HUMID COUNTRY before it's too bloody late. I have nothing better to do except think of how to act out my fucking revenge on Alan the balding bastard while I take a dump in the morning. I swear, it's interesting how I've skinned him alive time and time again everytime I constipate. Just because I don't answer to your texts, doesn't mean I have gone and swallowed 40 painkillers and DIED. No, I am just fucking tired of crying for no fucking good reason, alright?

And no, I'm not going to call you back soon. I can't even talk without my voice breaking. So yes, fucking let me moan in my little corner for a bit more till I'm ready to get the fuck out of my room. A few more days, I swear. I'll then go get my arse in gear.

And I don't know what I plan to do with my life right now, either. Day 1 I kept thinking 'Fuck I have to go to London.'. Then it hit me OH FUCK I DON'T HAVE A SINGLE CENT ON ME. THANK YOU, PARENTS. So yes, taking refuge under Jarrod's armpits was out of the fucking question. Day2 I was going around the house scaring my mom shitless by staring at her for hours to the point where she's gingerly stroking my head asking me if everything is alright. And she fucking ends every sentence with 'Sweetheart'. No, Ma. For crying out loud, everything is not alright. My world ended, Ma. But yes, thanks for feigning concern. And you don't have to touch me if it means you're doing it like I'm a rabid chihuahua, Ma. Really, it's alright. I'm not a big fan of unnecessary touching if it won't lead to sex, anyway. And since I'm not into incest, you don't really have to stroke me every few minutes. Everything's fucking up right before my very eyes, but it's perfectly alright. I AM FUCKING USED TO ALL THIS SHIT, REMEMBER.

Day3 I picked up a book, read it for an hour, had my mind elsewhere, chucked the book in the dustbin by mistake and I was staring at the rubbish chute going 'Oh fuck no! Nononononono!'. Nevermind that said book was shit anyway. But a book is a book. And goddamnit. Rubbish chute. Whoever invented a hollow shaft where rubbish go down should be thrown against a fucking wall. Later on during day 3, I was lying in bed blasting my headphones on so loud it gave me migraines. Then I went and smoked again. Finished my cigarettes that I bought in the morning by 3 pm. Drank my 4th cup of coffee. Drank cough syrup. Bad cough, I swear to god. Early into the morning of Day 4 it got me thinking, I should possibly go and try out the make-up field. I told my mom about it and JUST because she said 'No daughter of mine will be a make-up artist and go to hell for it.' the more I am going to do it. Fuck it, Ma, seriously. If I'm going to hell, I'd rather it be because I'm doing something I love and not because I ran down a fucking dog for fuck's sake. Plus, we're all going to hell. I'll reserve a sunny spot right next to the steam bath for my friends. Or the guillotine board. Whatever rocks your boat, baby.

Day 4, I was talking to Jarrod about the many blogs I have and I thought... I should be a fucking author. Thoughts of becoming a stripper went out the window. Along with thoughts of becoming a social escort. Or common whore, whatever. I'm a good writer. So yeah, why not. Go and get my fucking blogs turned into books. 'Confessions of the jobless'. I'll be an instant bestseller.

Oh my fucking lord. I don't know!

I have no fucking idea. I STILL think I should be in London right now.

NOW fuckdamnit. NOW.