Fat Boy's back!

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Day Six

Armpit hair, I think, is what makes a man a man. Don’t you think so? I mean, if grown men had no hair under their armpits, they would be incomplete. We were discussing body hair in the locker room the other day. Gym was over (Thank God), and we were changing back to our regular clothes.

I think it was Adam that brought the subject up. He was putting on deodorant and said, “I think I have the most armpit hair out of all us!”

“Yeah, whatever!” Nathan said and raised his arms. It was a wood—not a forest. Yet.

It was an all out war!

All of us raised our arms into the air and examined each other’s pits. There were only about two forests: Omar and mine. Man, that Hispanic kid must’ve eaten a horseradish the wrong way. Doesn’t horseradish put hair on your chest? Well, his obviously went under his arms.

I’m proud of my armpit hair. It’s a sign of manliness.

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No one knows that I threw up last night. No one will ever know. I’ll just keep it a secret. I shouldn’t be too hard. It’s not like I’d go up to someone and say, “Hey, I just threw up my dinner last night!”

I’m sad to admit that I did it again. I swear that I’ll never do it, ever, in my whole life. It’s really gross, but at the same time, satisfying. I guess it’s the feeling that you’re chucking away all of your fat. It’s going down the drain. It’ll never turn back.

I weighed myself after I flushed the toilet. 232.8. I had lost .2 pounds in the last day. Exhilaration swept through my body. I was losing weight. I was actually losing weight! And all because I up-chucked it!

I knew it was wrong for me. It could seriously damage some major organ, somewhere in my body. (Bulimic, wasn’t it called?) My teacher had talked about anorexic and bulimic people. It wasn’t healthy to be too skinny or too fat.

Where was the freaking medium?

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When I got home from school, my mother reminded me of my goals I had set with Meranda Briggs. I rolled my eyes and looked at the chart.

The square in the middle was filled in with the words lose weight. The arms that extended out from it read: running around the block; eating apples; no soda and no ice cream.

I had had a soda for lunch.

Screw the chart.

I took the paper down to my room and set it on my dresser. It glared at me with hungry eyes.

“Read me!” it seemed to scream. “Use me!”

I ignored it and cracked open a Dr. Pepper.

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We have a treadmill, somewhere, lurking in the basement. My mom and dad bought it, thinking that they would use it. I don’t think it had ever been turned on. My dad brought it home and set it up, yes, but it sat there, untouched.

One of my goals was to run around the block. Did I really want the neighbors to see my fat jiggling violently as I ran? No.

The treadmill would work. I didn’t know how to use it, but I was sure that I could figure it out. It wouldn’t be that hard.

I opened the basement door and turned on the light. Boxes littered the floor: It was so thick, you couldn’t even see the cemented ground. The treadmill was back there, somewhere.

I closed the door without hesitation.

I would look for it tomorrow. I chugged the rest of the soda in my hand.

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Stupid doctor. Stupid devil. Stupid Meranda Briggs. Everyone was so stupid! They try and make me do stuff I don’t wanna do, like forcing me to eat apples and run. It’s a free country. I shouldn’t have do to anything.

Life was just so freaking complicated, it was unbearable. Stress really takes a toll on my body. It makes me break out in zits everywhere—even where I shouldn’t be getting them. I could feel the breakout coming, and hated life even more.

If I was going to wake up tomorrow with zits covering every pore of my face, I swear I’m gonna kill myself.