Binge. Purge. Repeat.
Friday night. Texts.
There MUST be a plan on.
Oh good, the guys are hooking up.
Meet. Must meet.
Loneliness is a bitc*.
Mirror. Face.
F*ck, it looks ugly. Make up.
Lots, lots of it.
Foundation, and everything else.
Powder makes a shaky foundation.
Run to the wardrobe. Open.
Glittery, shimmery, slinky clothes say hello.
Twelve K, Six K, Nineteen K.
But tonight, we go with the Ten K.
Cheaper club, cheaper skin.
Hop into the cab, smoking.
Light. Draw. Blow. Extinguish.
Light.
And then something a little more potent.
Not all herbs are good for you.
Reach the club. Walk straight in.
Here every couple of weekends, who’s going to stop us?
The club is dark.
Good. Better this way.
The merciful darkness hides the ugly faces.
The music makes you groove.
Move.
Wind. Grind.
Wonder if the person I’m touching will remember me in the morning.
Because, God knows I’m going home with him.
Run to the bathroom. Feeling ugly.
Fingers. Throat. Urk.
Not bulimic, are we?
Nah, just unwell.
Why waste space on food, where there can be alcohol?
It’s snowing in the club.
But this snow comes not in flakes, but lines.
Not on your tongue. Up your nose.
Sniff, sniff.
Things are so much better with CharlieBoy.
Home. Not ours, though.
His. And hers.
Hands pawing at bodies. Writhing.
Sweating.
Leave your inhibitions at the door.
Morning. Wake.
As always, feel SICK.
Fu*k, it happened again.
Never, ever go home with a stranger again.
A dirty, filthy, violated feeling.
But that’s okay. Shake it off.
Get over yourself.
Let it all go.
Because, before long, it’s going to be Saturday night.
Binge. Purge. Repeat.
