Sitting in a pizza restaurant

Waiting for pasta I don’t need. And dough balls I don’t need. Hooray.

I wanted to stuff myself with carbs. I wanted something appropriately cheap and shitty but all I could find near my choir practice was a reasonably nice Italian restaurant. Where I have had to order, and wait for my food. It is interrupting the flow of my binge and, honestly, it’s annoying.

When I am in these self-destructive Godzilla-eat-everything phases, I do not want to slow down. I do not want to have to smile and nod at the guy in the Mexican restaurant when he asks if I have enjoyed my burrito. I want the guy in the Mexican restaurant to go away. But it’s not his fault. He doesn’t know what I’m doing.

I called up an ED help line today, in desperation. I paced the hallway of my work and talked on the phone to a kindly middle-aged woman about my problems, and I cried. She was lovely. She linked me to some books and I’m going to acquire them. I hope they will help me. But the rest of the day was always going to be a write-off.

This restaurant was a pretty terrible idea. It’s too nice and upbeat. It doesn’t jive with my mood of self-loathing.

The lasagne was good though, I’ll give it that, even if I’m embarrassed that I finished it so quickly.

All done now. What else can I eat.


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