Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

It took an acid-trip, about 40 minutes sleep and a lunch comprised mainly of MEAT, but I feel like I’ve been gifted with a positively marvellous sense of clarity.

Fuck me... They say a (revoltingly) greasy fry-up is the prime cure for a hangover; well it does appear that for an acid-afterglow/comedown all I needed was a massive (temporary, obviously) injection of succulent meat to perk me up fabulously. Not what I would have traditionally gone for, but my father seems to be playing food chicken with me and GAWD, his anorexic pretty-much-vegetarian daughter is FAR too stubborn to simply back down. Fuck that shit. After a starter, main, dessert and four quick carefully placed purges I have a bounce in my step and a nicely flat stomach despite the sheer size of my meal. And I appear to have sufficiently convinced my newly observant father that I DO in fact eat like a ‘normal person’.

Or some such nonsense.

Last night as my brain fizzled and squiggled gently, I often caught myself staring down at my thigh in fascination. As I sat with my legs were folded up beneath me my thighs were in a naturally quite unflattering position, pressed up against my calves and smooshed out to their maximum width.

The obvious happened. Obviously.

I had previously figured that considering my quickening ascent into complete insanity – YES. Ascent. There’s nothing wrong with being completely fucking crazy – perhaps dropping a hallucinogen might not be the best idea I’ve had thus far. That perhaps a greatly skewed sense of visual perception may do my mental stability more harm than good.

But, alas; I am impressionable, fickle and most importantly - the acid was free...

If you’re going to do it wrong, do it right.

By ‘the obvious’ I am obviously referring to my eyes seeing not reality of my thighs before me, but rather under my gaze the surface of my grey leggings shifted like the surface of a liquid and my thighs ballooned to their proportions I had become accustomed to staring down at in disgust in the previous years. Still rippling slightly, as if the cellulite was churning under my skin.

VOMIT.

Over and over, I glanced at various body parts watching in horror as they ballooned and undulated. Now, I’m not one for praying, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I mentally screamed out to God to make it not be true. Unfortunately don’t think it counts if your second most used word, after please, is FUCK. At least that’s what I hear - the last time I voluntarily entered a church or chapel, someone had to die first. My stomach tightened and rolled and I fled to the toilet heaving up disappointingly small trickles of bile and foam.

Well fuck... What do I do now?

Throwing up has practically become my compulsive reaction to stress and anxiety. So, sitting in a sweaty heap on the toilet floor, I was actually at a loss.

Forcing my rising hysteria down with the simple cold logic that an increase of that size and speed would have probably seriously hurt me - and as I was NOT in fact bleeding profusely from rips in my flesh and in fact NOT in writhing agony I muddled through to the realisation that without the proof of pain this realistically COULD NOT BE FUCKING HAPPENING.

And then the whole concept slipped my mind. I walked back into the bedroom, continued smoking and giggling ridiculously and the moment was over.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

But then it was. Then again it wasn’t. Then it was again. Back and forth my addled mind flitted between amusement and paranoid panic.



Other choice snippets of the evening include: the hilarity of Jewish Dubstep, Jimi Hendrix as a whale from beyond the grave, and the advent of a new religion based on the premise of ‘If you’re going to roll one, roll two.’ A great night had by all :)



At the end of the night, I stood before the full length mirror in my bikini, fighting the urge to turn away in disgust, as is my usual reaction to most mirrors and detailed scrutiny of myself. But I persevered and peered, and poked and prodded, and pinched and pulled at myself, forcibly burning the physical knowledge that it COULD NOT BE TRUE deep into my brain.

The acid actually dispelled the usual filter of hate I see myself and any pictures of myself through and I stared at myself in analytical fascination, expecting at any point to resume loathing myself as normal.

But it didn’t happen.

And I think I may have caught an actual glimpse of what I look like. Not the distorted bloated image I see whenever I looked into the mirror, but my TRUE appearance. Like finally looking in a normal mirror after it seemed I would be saddled with my perceived funhouse mirror-esque look forever. With a sense of clarity I stared at my hipbones, collarbones and narrow wrists and I dared to allow myself pleasure at what I saw there.



OR in the same way the acid temporarily ballooned my thighs, it shrank me down to what I hoped I would see and emphasised my bones.

OR simply, I’m crazy.

Whatever.

It left me in a fabulous mood when I eventually woke up in the early afternoon.



I’m wondering what to do with my newfound, albeit limited, happiness. I mean, in re-checked the mirror and the distortion is firmly back in place, so.... what? I feel like I should make a pretty red bracelet or something...



Hmmm... Onto other things; my first somewhat successful social outing has occurred – blissfully short and compliments aplenty, oh and a somewhat diminished sense of empathy and emotion that is making it difficult to interact with other humans. How interestingly sociopathic!

Oh and 138.8lbs yesterday morning!

A cause for celebration methinks :)