Hey, my name is Seedla Mange, and I live in Delaware City, Delaware. After having to break up with my now ex-boyfriend, Eric, for calling me a tiny cum-guzzling sow, I decided to go on a diet. No one has ever told me I was fat before, always the opposite actually, but since Eric said it, I figured it must be true. He told me I’d like it when he tea bagged me, and he was right.
DAY 1: It’s 9:40am. Just got back from doing some grocery shopping. Despite the fact that I got an oil change yesterday, some part of my car engine is smoking. I popped the hood several times to spot the source of the smoke, and found a tiny broken twig. I immediately threw it out. I hope I don’t have any more problems with this, otherwise Monday, I’ll have to bring it in. That means having to look at Eric’s face, again. He’s my mechanic/ex-boyfriend. I’d like to see him as less as possible so that he gets the hint that I’m not into him anymore, and haven’t been for quite some time now. I just feel like slapping the back of his baldhead every time I see him now. Anyway, my belly is a little rumbly, so I might have some milk.
DAY 2: Mother made pancakes for breakfast, and I had to pinch my nose while passing by the kitchen so that the smell of the imitation maple syrup didn’t tempt me. The funny thing is, I dreamt about pancakes last night. In the dream, I was climbing a stack wearing only a second-hand coffee colored fedora, and a pair of hiker’s boots, which had forks sticking from the outsole. I never made it to the top, because the mountain of pancakes turned out to be a volcano; it erupted, and was drowning me in blueberry syrup. I woke up at that point, before I saw myself gasping for the last bit of air. I got out of my bed, looked at the clock: three o’nine a.m. I head to the bathroom in search of floss. I take it out of the medicine cabinet, and suck on the mint flavored thread while nomming the mint flavored coating. I remember how Eric’s breath used to smell like cigarettes and spearmint; he always chewed gum to cover up his dirty habit. Come to think of it, his schlong smelled the same way too, weird. I know he’s flexible, but…would he?
DAY 3: I decided to have mango orange juice for breakfast. My stomach bitched at me-it’s been begging for something solid and good since yesterday evening. Every time I see a food commercial, I sip some water, pretending like it’s the edible celebrity on the boob tube. Liquid cheeseburgers, crackers, and Red Lobster dinner specials, whose only ingredients are water, fill my shrinking stomach. After lunch, I get a text from Eric. He says he can see what I’m doing, and that the Hello Kitty hoodie I have on is unflattering, but he’d still fuck me while choking me the way he used to. Haha, that Eric. Everyone loves Hello Kitty!
DAY 4: I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open as I write this. I had a can of strawberry nectar for lunch, and just finished off a glass of cranberry juice for dinner. I’ve been getting crazy headaches and dizzy spells. Mother says I look ghastly, but I told her not to be so jealous, because I’m going to be thin and she’s not ever going to be with those cankles from hell. She threatened to put me in a rehab for eating disorders. I chuckled, and told her I’m over eighteen, that legally she can’t force me to do anything. At this realization, she stomps off, her cankles wiggling like a tub of Greek yogurt. Got another text from Eric saying he got me something special, and that it’s not because he still loves me. Right. I hope it’s nothing to match the green satin titty tassles he got me two weeks ago for our three-week anal sex anniversary. Thinking about this makes me wonder why I didn’t break up with him right after I tried them on.
This may be the nausea talking, but I could’ve sworn that I saw someone looking through my bedroom window last night. Not long after I got a picture message from Eric: he was wearing nothing but a blue bow tie, and he was lying on top of an economy-sized box of lube, his hard penis in hand with a toothy grin. He must have a membership at Costco.
DAY 5: My hair has started falling out. As I combed it this morning, clumps were all through the teeth. I suppose this is due to my dizziness at four a.m.; I needed a drink and grabbed something that looked like a beer bottle, though this bottle was black, from the garage. My stomach is so empty, and I’ve been vomiting all day. I’ve only been able to keep down water.
There was a knock at my bedroom window in the late afternoon. Eric left a note with a used condom taped to it. The note read: I was thinking of you, and made this. I was so hungry; I almost dumped the entire condom into my mouth. Instead, I took it off the window, and put it in the freezer. Mother said she enjoyed the fresh icing on her pound cake, though the packaging was strange.
DAY 6: My fingernails are breaking so badly, that they bleed beneath the nail bed every time. I have a few cold sores, three, that are right on my mouth. I only have eight of my fingers left. Last night, while operating the bench saw in the garage (I was trying to make a bookshelf for all the porn DVDs Eric sent me early this afternoon), when my blurry vision failed me. I wish I could have a proper funeral for my left pinky and ring finger. So glad I’m a righty.
DAY 7: This is the last day of my liquid fast. I’ve realized that sacrificing solid food helped me gain new perspective on my weight issues, and also my love life. I was one hundred pounds even, five foot two, before I started the diet. Now I weigh ninety-six pounds (losing two fingers helped apparently), and I’m happy with that. I don’t need to look like a skeleton to be attractive, especially since Eric usually finds me attractive. Sure, I’m only twenty-two, and Eric is fifty-one, but we’re definitely made for each other. He loves me, and I never want to lose that. I’ll never meet anyone else that can come in under three minutes, which is good, since having sex with me is like throwing a hot dog down a hall way. A school hallway.