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What I can't believe is that someone like me, a radical feminist for nearly thirty years, could spend this much time thinking about my stomach. It has become my tormentor, my distracter; it's my most serious committed relationship.
It has protruded through my clothes, my confidence, and my ability to work. I've tried to sedate it, educate it, embrace it, and most of all, erase it.
My body will be mine when I’m thin. I will eat a little at a time, small bites. I will vanquish ice cream. I will purge with green juices. I will see chocolate as poison and pasta as form of self-punishment. I will work not to feel full again. Always moving towards full, approaching full, but never really full. I will embrace my emptiness, I will ride it into holy zones. Let me be hungry. Let me starve. Please
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Right away he has me lifting heavy objects. Very heavy. The good news is I’m so fucking sore I can’t move my head so I’m unable to see my disgusting
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I’m walking down a New York City street, and I catch a glimpse of this blonde pointy-breasted raisin-a-day stomached smiling girl on the cover of Cosmo magazine. She is there every minute, somewhere in the world, smiling down on me, on all of us. She’s omnipresent.
She’s The American Dream, my personal nightmare. My stomach is America. I want to drown in the cement. Obviously I’m missing something. Maybe if I go and find Helen Gurley Brown, the woman behind Cosmo, she’ll reveal the secret.

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