sugar smack

Last night, this dream:

Through the glass door of the oven I can see a layer cake cooking.

It is already fully iced, and trimmed with sugar flowers.

As I watch contentedly through the glass, the smell in the air goes from ‘yum, baking’ to ‘oh, burning!’

Fire begins to crawl along the cake’s surface, blackening the frosting and sending caramelized runnels of sugar streaking down the surface like tears.

I can’t open the oven door. The cake dissolves into lumps of cinder. I feel outraged! I want to eat that cake!! ALL OF THAT CAKE!

Even OA meetings make me hungry. This nonsense is getting ridiculous. I sit there wondering what my higher power is. I wish I had one. Because I am bored of myself, my boring small-scale preoccupations: appetite, phobias, doom. Neuroses is boring! I want an ideal, a God in easy grasp.

At the meeting all that sad talk of bingeing, of locking the doors and diving pell mell into ice cream/potato chips/sorrow makes my mouth water. This is fucked up…

My weight’s creeping up. Intellectually, I don’t know why this bothers me. Bodies are just bodies. Fat, bones, sinew. A little extra of some things. It’s all disgusting!

Think about real things. Philosophy, adventure plans, riddles.
Thoughts of cake intrudes…

I am a little heartsick yet also perversely relieved, to see the scale creep up. I knew fat Hunter will catch up with me again! Normal Hunter is just on day parole. This relative normalcy of the past few years has been a mere reprieve!

One night soon, Swiss roll thugs will pop out of an alley and break my kneecaps. I’ll be blindfolded with a froot roll-up and thrown in the back of a panel van and driven to an undisclosed location by tattooed and menacing Lamingtons. Forced to eat whole packets of Ritz crackers and cheese in a cellar somewhere. The mocking laughter of Count Chocula will toll the hours.

I don’t know just why weight bothers me. I’ve never been a person preoccupied by appearances. I cut my own hair and own one sad little lipstick that’s melted like ten thousand times from being in my pocket.

In fact it is always heavy girls who catch my eye on the street, something about their fat seems free. Thin girls can look so uniform and barebones, no pun intended. Fat has waves and variety.  But somehow I’m bothered, when it’s me. I don’t feel free and awesome like those devil may care fat girls.

I’m bored of always being hungry. Bored of sitting on the shore of appetite, cravings coming and going like the tide, high noon and no end in sight to the restlessness.
If I could just eat crap and be at peace, that would be satisfactory. But it’s a case  of one being too many and all of it never being enough.
When I sit down to write I get hungry. When I’m anxious I get hungry. When I drink to not be so anxious I get hungry.   When I sit down to face myself, commit my ideas to paper I see how far I have to go and get discouraged and hungry. The distance between ideals and reality seem so unbridgeable, with my abilities. It’s like crossing the desert on some stupid half-dead camel.

Why isn’t my ideal day a philosophical conversation held under an acorn tree? Why is it bourbon and cookies on the couch with a comic book!!