scene 3
Storyboard Text
- 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.
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- 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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