Miniature puddles


Painfully descriptive. Painfully real.


Dear Dad,

Food is spooned into my mouth in such succession that I almost forget how to breathe. Three-quarters of the way through the bowl, I choke, I cough and gravy shoots out of my nose. I don’t stop though. I wipe the gravy away with the back of my hand and continue to plow through the food. It’s polenta and something. The ‘and something’ hardly matters though. I can’t taste it anyway. And when I’m finished I push it down further with the remnants of a cold cup of tea.

It’s disgusting.

I’m disgusting.

My belly bulges over my pants, gurgling at me to stop, but I pick up the bowl and head in to the kitchen to drown out its cries.



—Please stop?


Handfuls of whatever I can find are tossed into my mouth: nuts, dry cereal, crackers, sweet biscuits. All are barely chewed and…

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