BUt this to me is much more obscene: The other day, I was doing a major clean-up of my bedroom. You know, more than just dusting and surface cleaning, which lead me to start going through closets and drawers and stuff. I was shocked to realize that I had junk food and dirty dishes stashed all over the place. A small pizza box with a couple of crusts in it ... 4-5 bowls with the remains of ice cream or pudding crusted onto them ... a half-eaten bag of Cheetos ... three (!) empty 2-liter bottles of soda (not diet) ... an empty whipped cream can ... two small deli containers with the remnants of horseradish-bacon potato salad from the supermarket ...
I was astonished. I live alone, so I know it's me. And I know I eat in my room a lot. I just can't figure out what on earth possess me to stash stuff in drawers as opposed to just throwing it away or taking it downstairs. I'm sure it stems from guilt about eating so badly and so clandestinely. You know, some people fear that if they were to die unexpectedly that their loved ones will come across a stash of sex toys or something when they go through their belongings. My great fear is that people will find a three-week-old Ho-Ho in my pillowcase.
I am slowly -- maybe not so slowly -- descending to rock bottom when it comes to eating. Monday, for example, I weighed myself and as I was on the scale I was eating a big piece of banana bread. While I was on the scale. Yeah, that's pretty bad.
Who knows... maybe I have to sink this low to finally, finally do something about it.

I'm not sure what the **** else is going on, if anything. Although I think it's a serious case of resentment. You know, why can't I eat what I want like other people? Why can't I be gorgeous and thin? Why can't I not have to diet all the time? I really think that's it. But what the **** am I proving by overeating? That I'm a silly immature child. I just have to let that all go.