My binge eating has transcended the point where it brings on euphoria. Now I eat until I experience gut-spliting pain. I eat beyond my physical capacity to eat. Like 10 slices of pound cake at a buffet. 35 chocolate chip cookies at a pilot premiere. And if I need to take a break, if I can’t possibly take in any more, I reach for the booze. Liquid food.
My life is full of buffets now. I can’t take drugs anymore and nobody will fuck me. Grinding my body down to a thin wick on the stairmaster has burned out some central fuse that tells people when to stop eating and I’m left with infinite hunger, a bottomless need to cram anything at all– especially sweet foods– into a hole that will never be filled. Eating is better than fucking, better than masturbating, better than having some great intellectual insight, better than writing or guitar playing or anything constructive. Eating and its horrible guilt, and its corresponding self-flagellatory hours shredding my tendons and bones on the stairmaster… this awful cycle of regret and further self-debasement that happens because I have no girlfriend and very few friends and so quite simply nothing else to do with my time.