A Life Regurgitated: The Theodore Greene Story

My uncanny knack for hiding an explosive bullimia habit has come to an end, and I now suspect my new roommate Debralee of the same dirty secret that I've kept all these years. Why is there dribble of vomit on the side of the toilet bowl? Wasn't mine. Why does she have so many breath mints stashed everywhere? Debralee is obsessed with breath mints, and now it all makes sense.

Let's face it. Food, like sex, is comforting, and sometimes you just want a lot of comfort. But comfort only lasts for a little while. (Sometimes no longer than 10 minutes.) How nice is it, then, if you ever get sad and eat too many jars of peanut butter by accident, you can just stick your fingers down your throat, and all of your previous sins are forgiven?

Now, since I haven't been working for a couple weeks, I have the time. Tomorrow, I'll attempt a downward spiral to include a dramatic food intervention from concerned friends, and maybe receive word about the abrupt death of a loyal puke buddy. Maybe those events will be enough to knock some sense into my bones of beauty, which I hold so dear. I'm not saying I indulge often, and I'm not pro ana or anything like that, but it sure is nice to exercise options from my best friend (bulli)MIA.

And Southern California is all about options.