Sometimes while driving, I wish that some maniac driver would crash into me, putting me in a hospital bed entangled in tubes and iv drips.

Sometimes while driving on the off-ramp of the freeway, I wish I could just drive off the steep edge, rolling violently down the hill.

Sometimes I wish death were that easy. Instead, here I sit, in an empty shell of a once beautiful, carefree and confident girl. But she already died a long time ago in the burning car, pronounced dead on impact.

"Dude, you are one lucky man," Matt was definitely crossfaded by now and was giving commentary on my relationship, only, he was directing all of this to him. "No really dude. You're so lucky. I mean look at her. I'm jealous you've seen her naked, no offense," directing that last part to me.

"Guys, stop. Please stop," I was drunkenly pleading with Matt as he continued on this strange rant. My boyfriend just sat there, not really responding to anything Matt was saying. I continued to beg and he continued to talk over me, waving his Heinekin beer bottle in my boyfriend's direction. Before I knew it, everyone was adding to the conversation. Mick piped in, "she settled dude. Like, she's totally out of your league. Your lucky man." I had no idea where any of this was coming from. I looked over at my boyfriend with a helpless expression. I felt so mortified that this was the topic of discussion.

Previous to this odd exchange, I was talking with Emily and Kelsey about my relationship with my boyfriend. "I think I love him guys," I professed to them. "I always find myself about to word vomit. All the time." That's when he came in, right as we were talking about him, talking about something serious. Then Matt followed and went off on that strange rant.

But I do find myself thinking that I love him. Apparently there's a difference between loving someone and being IN LOVE with them, which I don't see. And that could possibly mean that maybe I'm not ready to love someone, tell them that I do, or maybe that what I'm feeling is being confused with something else. I'm not sure. What I do know is that I could see myself spending a lot of time with him. I could see myself in the future with him, in another city, enjoying each other. I can see it. Then again, I do have a tendency to jinx things.

I hate this feeling, being alone. I'm sitting here in the dark, fully armed with potato chips and crackers, bagels and cookies, anything I can find. I'm sitting here with a big glass of water, gulping it down in between mouthfuls while watching stick figure actresses online. Every day has become a b/p day, but today is officially bad. I don't want to see my boyfriend. I'd rather sit here and make myself sick. How selfish is that. I feel terrible.

As I sat Mother's Day dinner, after the waitress brought out the bread, after I helped myself to a third slice, I realized I had a problem. Never-ending bread baskets, platefuls of pasta, sugary desserts. But I realized I had a problem controlling my urge to eat came to me as I buttered the bread.
"Don't fill up on the bread," my father said. My mouth was too full of butter and carbs to respond. I took a big gulp from my water glass, remembering the pattern: bite of food, drink water, bite of food, drink water. I laid my hands in my lap, fidgeting, contemplating another piece of bread. Conversations were flying back and forth across the table. Finally, I gave into Mia. 'One more won't hurt', she whispered softly into my hear. I knew I'd be taking care of it later.

Last night was a blur of junk food, trash bags, countless bottles of water and bile. I'd been sitting in the dark the entire day, the only source of light coming from my laptop. Online television shows played in the background in hopes of canceling out the noise.

Around 10pm, my father calls. I'd just finished off my third trash bag and I could hardly breathe. "Hello?" I answered.
"What are you doing?" he questioned.
"I'm in my room studying." I lied. First off, I never study. And secondly, I was not about to confess that I'd been making myself sick. "You're brother just called me. I guess there's stuff going on over at the house." My mother and father had been divorced for a good ten years. Mom is dating someone new and every day is drama with it. She's mad at him one day and the next she's in love again. It's exhausting.
"Yeah, I know. He called me earlier and told me that she'd been mixing her pain meds with alcohol again. I told him to call me back and let me know what had happened."
"Your brother said that he was in his room and Mom kept coming in asking him if she needed to make dinner. He kept telling her no, that he was fine, and after about the fifth time he said no, she got pissed."
"What?"
"Yeah. So your mom was yelling at him and almost hit him, and he told her if she hit him, he'd leave." This was not the first time this has happened. My mother is an awful drunk, and I don't mean in the sense of violent (normally), but she gets obnoxious. Loud and dramatic. My brother has threatened to leave before, to go live with Dad.
"Again?? What happened?" I asked.
"Well then your brother called. He said he hadn't been doing anything, just stayed in his room, and she kept coming in asking about dinner. Lisa had to come over and try to calm her down."
"Did you talk to Lisa?"
"Yes, she said the same thing. She said your mom had been mean to her earlier and that she would try to separate them and calm things down. I told her I would come pick him up if I needed to."
"So...now what?" I asked. I was worried. My brother is just a kid. He doesn't need this kind of shit in his life. I mean, look how fucked up I am.
"I think he needs to come live with me. We need to get him out of there. And we need to get your mom help."
We talked a little more, about my brother and Mom's alcoholic tendencies. I thought this shit was over, stuck in the past. Stuck under my bed, shoved in my closet. My brother doesn't need to go through this either. And Mom timed it just right; I'm moving home for the summer in a week. I just hope I can help my brother.

Bulimia is expensive and is not for the poverty-stricken.

I'm sitting in my 2-d design class contemplating getting a veggie burger and onion rings. Beer battered and deep-fried onion rings. Smothered in fattening ranch dressing. And for dessert? An entire pint of Haagen-Dazs cookie dough ice cream. Estimated intake: 2,000 calories? Estimated outtake: ALL OF IT.

I sat and contemplated all of this. The binging, the purging. The act of moving my dainty flower ring from my right middle finger over to my left, so it's out of the way. I turn on the shower so my roommates don't hear me. I bring in my scale, a necessary item to the process. I remove my shirt, lift up the toilet seat, deep breath, and...begin.