Page 75 of Guy's Girl
You ate too much.
You need to throw up.
You can’t throw up.
You haven’t exercised in two days.
You need to stand up and walk around.
You’re going to get fat.
You’re going to feel awful about yourself.
Return to first bullet point. Repeat.
You know, if there’s one positive to this whole situation, it’s that, with all my time and energy devoted to feeling like I could fucking die at any moment, there’s very little space left for thinking about Finch.
As I think about him right now, I don’t feel sad; I feel angry. I think I might genuinely hate him. I do. All the sadness I felt about his engagement—it’s gone, leaving in its place a burning hot anger unlike anything I have felt toward any human being, ever.
And to think—not a week ago, I thought I was in love with him!
How is that even possible? Can we trick ourselves into thinking we’re in love? And, if so, how am I ever supposed to know when it’s the real thing? Maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe, when it happens, I’ll just have to throw myself in blindly and pray my emotions aren’t trying to deceive me.
***
Every meal is a fucking mountain. Ginny both cannot wait to eat and dreads eating so intensely that she wishes she could brutally murder the human need for sustenance. She’s never felt such contrasting emotions about one simple event before.
At mealtimes, she picks at her plate, tentative, embarrassed. She knows they’re all watching. That they’re wondering if, afterthey go to bed, she’ll throw up out her bedroom window. They probably think she’s weak, that she’s disgusting. She can’t stand the sight of her empty plate. She can’t stand the feeling of existing inside her own skin.
