You know your life is fucked up (to use the Anglo-Saxon tongue) when the thought comes to you “I wish I were bulimic”. My carnal life is fed by two fires of overconsumption: lust and gluttony. Or what I like to call, the “uncool” sins. Drunkenness and Pride would probably be alot more fashionable. But by the grace of God I am what I am, to rip St. Paul’s words out of context.
I know I’m doing better with lust when I am filled with self-loathing because of gluttony (by this I basically mean that I’m obese, I don’t think I commit the sin in the manner of the Romans). So today I was thinking about ‘trying’ bulimia. But I didn’t. Mainly because a friend of mine used to be, and she coughs up blood now. And secondly because I pictured myself sitting at the doctors , fat as ever, and having him tell me I have a stomach disorder because of it, and that strangely enough I was the only fat bulimic person on earth. By this I mean: even in my vices I cannot seem to suceed. I’d find something else to hate myself for, it would just go on and on.
So I didn’t throw up, as usual, it was all talk. I’m a classic academic, melodramatic, overeducated, and self-centred. I never do anything, because by God’s grace if I was a “doer” (or an American) I probably would’ve blown my brains out long ago.
I have to go to work now. I always get scared before work. It reminds me of George Orwell describing bording school where he wet the bed and was punished. He said that he had never achieved such fervancy in his prayer life as when he prayed before he went to bed those nights. I have a similar fervancy before work. Yesterday I put my rosary Lance gave me in my pocket, it actually made me feel safer. I’m going to do it again tonight. I guess I am a superstitious romanist now. oh well, as John Lennon said ‘whatever helps you through the night’ and/or deli shift.