*Passage behind cut is deeply disturbing*
Bad night. I want to cut this husk off me and fly. I hate the taste of my living breath in my mouth. It disgusts me, as does the Grey Prince and his stink of life and meat. And sex. The septic stench of his kind of sex. Dripping off my face, making my eyes swell and itch, making it hurt to blink. After I was very clear with him. The stench of it in the bowl, mixed (yet again) with my blood. The stench of it on the sheets, dripping from my (once again, over my protests) torn rectum as he spreads himself out on the dry clean part of the bed, smiling, serene, loving, his night complete. At those times he is in a beautiful high place I can't reach. And it's because he has to thrust me down so low in order to get there. The stink of it in my mouth like meat swollen with some putrid infection, covered in my blood and shit. Somehow I have made it dirty. Somehow I have to get it clean. I have to get it clean. I have to get it clean. The night won't end until I get it clean. But no, wait, I don't eat this, I don't want it, don't like it, don't like meat, don't like shit, but he holds my head still and pushes it into the back of my throat and says, "You like this, you love the taste, don't you?" I say nothing (how can I?) and he says "You love it, it makes you wild, you're crazy for the taste of your own ass, aren't you?" I say nothing, fighting my stomach's urge to vomit on him. "Aren't you?" Nothing. "You love it, don't you?" Long pause. Quietly: "Mmm-hmm". Please let that be enough, oh please. But he pulls out, still holding my head: "Yes... tell me. Tell me how much you love it." Oh god, please, no.
But yes girl, relax, hushhh, it's okay. You ate a lot yesterday so you don't have to eat today if you don't want to, you don't have to deal with anything bad; soothe yourself, work out, be calm, you're smooth and hard and indestructible, and you get to spend the whole weekend being okay, working on yourself, working out, feeling the emptiness that makes you clean, that makes you good, that protects you; you can have as much nothing as you want. You can fill yourself with so much emptiness that there's no room for anything else. You're a strong lovely clean girl; there's nothing wrong with you. Don't think about the nights. Don't think about the food and the shit and the blood; they don't exist and they never happened. Soon you won't even remember. It's okay. You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. Hush. Hushhh. Stop crying. You have some running to do, don't you? You want to run, don't you? Running makes it okay, remember? Hushhh, girl. It's okay.
So. Yes, it's okay. Everything's fine. Yes. So, finally, a real solution for the potassium issue, thanks to something I found in therealslimjoce's journal.
Morton Salt Substitute. It's made of potassium chloride, has no calories, and contains readily-available potassium in sufficient quantities (if I gorge on it) to prevent more of my cardiac "episodes". Which is good, because I'd really loathe it if I had a heart attack while still in my healthy weight range and left a fat corpse.
I'm buying some today, along with the rest of my odd little purchases.
The shopping list:
Two bags of salad greens
A big bag of kale
One can of albacore tuna
Morton Salt Substitute
Two bags of sugar-free candies
A four-pack of sugar-free rice pudding cups (but only if I swear to limit myself to one pack per week.)
A four-pack of bottled diet blackberry-flavored sparkling juice-water(3 calories)
A six-pack of canned diet cranberry ginger ale (0 calories)
A big box of nonsparkling diet raspberry-flavored juice-water (10 calories)
A four-pack of bottled tangerine-flavored sparkling water (0 calories)
A big bottle of mango-flavored diet juice-water (10 calories)
When I reduce the scope and variety of my real foods, I always want to pump up the scope and variety of my fake foods. Thus, the vast assortment of low-calorie and no-calorie beverages.
I'm also sick of soup. I'm giving it up for a little while. A can of albacore tuna is huge and should take care of me for a couple of days at least. Yes. It's going to be okay. When I put a spoonful on top of a salad it's really good.
For a special treat I might buy myself the sugar-free gummi worms I love so much. And I'll drink my tea slowly and find a good book. It'll be good. It'll be okay. I'm going to run until I can't run anymore, then walk until I can't walk anymore, then suck on gummi worms like a naughty girl and read and drink hot tea until it's time to sleep. And everything's going to be okay. Everything's going to be just fine. Everything is already fine. I'm good, I'm okay; I'm simply mahvelous, dahling. So, yes. Yes. Okay.