Frothy, fizzy and fun to eat, this great lunch can't be beat! A real treat as exciting to the taste as it is to your waist. Only one thing to worry about: what are you going to do with all that extra energy?
Bite ends off Twizzler and reserve. Drink first can of soda using Twizzler as straw. Open second can of soda, empty out one third, refill with vodka. Drink, using Twizzler. Eat half of Twizzler, and use other half to snort one line cocaine. Eat cocaine-encrusted half of Twizzler. Repeat as needed.
Note on scoring cocaine: This should not be a problem if you live in an urban area and have regular access to an ATM card; in rural areas, feel free to substitute with homemade methamphetamine (recipe p. 367).
"Hi Gladys," I said.
"Hi baby," Gladys said, smiling. "Where you going? You going to see Dr. Gupta today?"
"No, Gladys, not today," I said grandly. "Today I shall be visiting the Office of Sexual and Reproductive Health."
Thank God Danita wasn't there. Thank God. I could almost hear her: Repro-what? What you got going on down there? Something nasty? Gladys just nodded, handed me a clipboard and told me to wait, she'd see who was available.
I was, quite frankly, expecting the worst. About a week ago, I'd begun to experience severe vaginal itching. I experimented with a variety of creams and suppositories, but this only seemed to exacerbate the discomfort, which was quickly joined by the near-constant discharge of an oddly colored fluid the consistency of dishwashing detergent and the stench of, in a word, death. It smelled so fucking bad. It smelled like the inside of a garbage truck. It smelled like a meat locker after a long power outage in August. It smelled like that smell that hits you sometimes in the subway, so fetid, rotten and overwhelming that you know you are in a place where the body of an enormous rodent is currently decomposing, or a homeless person has very recently been naked. There was a demon in my vagina.
"Well, I have your charts here," said the nurse, a man in periwinkle scrubs who I'd never seen before. The Office of Sexual and Reproductive Health was not one I visited often. "It says you're being treated for anorexia? By Dr. Gupta? How's that going?"
"Fine," I said.
"It seems to be," he said. "Dr. Gupta's noted here that you've gained a little weight, which she must be pleased about."
I had gained eleven pounds, to be exact, and when I had last seen Dr. Gupta four weeks ago she was overjoyed.
"You're out of the danger zone!" she said, clapping her hands in delight.
I also found that when I did attempt normal food, the alcohol's inhibition-lowering properties helped.
"Yes," I said.
"How do you feel about that?" she asked me hastily.
"I am delighted that I am no longer in danger of sudden cardiac arrest." I said.
"It's terrific," she replied. "Really. You should be very proud of yourself. And you know what?" She lowered her voice excitedly, as though she was about to reveal what Santa was bringing me for Christmas. "A few more pounds, and you might even start to menstruate again!"
I didn't tell her that while I had indeed allowed myself to teeter on the brink of health, at least seventy-five percent of my increased caloric intake was alcohol. She was so happy, and it seemed cruel to spoil the moment.
After watching Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story while enjoying a hit of acid with my friend B.J. one night, my dread of death finally overcame my dread of food, but just barely. I still didn't think I was really that thin, but booze seemed like a good compromise. It was highly caloric, but in the best way — its calories didn't just feed your body, they fed your soul. I also found that when I did attempt normal food, the alcohol's inhibition-lowering properties helped. A couple shots of vodka with breakfast, and I could choke down a container of yogurt and a slice or two of dry toast. Another quick shot mid-morning and I tackled a banana. A nice glass of Scotch at lunchtime, and I might even manage the yolk from an egg.
"So," said the man-nurse. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"I believe I have a urinary-tract infection," I lied.
"What are your symptoms?"
I listed them. After thirty or so seconds of extremely unprofessional silence, he regained his composure. Faggot, I thought.
"That doesn't sound like a urinary-tract infection."
"Oh," I said innocently. "Does it not?"
He paused to draw a small circle in the corner of my chart before asking, "Have you been sexually active in the last few months?"
