Stop telling me I have body dysmorphia.

I don't tell you how you should feel about how you look.

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Monday - Friday: Exercises and eats salads.

Saturday: Gets drunk and eats 20 tacos

Sunday: I peel my head barely off the mattress only to realize a half-eaten carnitas taco rests atop my fupa, summiting an appetite that is equally insatiable and self-destructive. I see my bloated belly and it represents a full stomach and a swelling void. This cycle can not continue, it must not continue. I’ve tried everything: Snorting Adderall… well, that’s about it.

A low sense of self-worth lurks in the ether, creeping behind me and scouring for an opportunity to exploit this recurring vulnerability. I can’t let it come to this, but I may have no other choice.

I can run off my calories, but can I outrun my insecurities?

I roll out of bed and drag my feet across the floor until I reach the bathroom mirror. The reflection presents a pale simulacrum of a man, one sighing and resigned. I admit to myself, “Mom is right. I’m way too fat to marry rich.”

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