http://www.archive.org/details/StrangerStudy_898

I wonder was there ever a self-loving dame? Someone who looked in the mirror and was completely satisfied by every curve, every last part?

“I think you’ve had enough.” I cannot even imagine my dad uttering those words. And taking my plate away at dinner? Never. Wouldn’t he know that that was psychologically damaging to a daughter? The thought of this interaction makes my blood boil. I look at my friend and I don’t know what to say. What can you say? The damage has already been done.

Some find solace in grease stained indulgences. Fatty bacon, crinkle cut fries, potato pancakes topped with dollops of sour cream, congealed cheese deep fried into mozzarella sticks.

My mom always says, “She never met a chip she didn’t like.” She goes for salty, I go for sweet.

I watch her stalk from across the room. Long-legged strides.

I applaud some girls for their constant discipline.

Coffee is a diuretic.

Bodies tuned and constructed through restriction.

A pestilence infectious in our generation. A desire to mold. A desperation for perfection.

One time Whitney told me she tried to go a whole day without food.

The painful pounding of weak knees on the treadmills is drowned out by the machines’ continuous reverberating belts. People line up for them. A line, like one of the great depression, but with vastly different priorities.

Restriction is a form of self-mutilation.

Covers are graced with flawless figures. Deceptive, but convincing examples of perfection.

Women dress for other women. That is a fact. I do it. But it still perplexes me. If I dressed for myself, I would never take off my ugly purple sweatpants that barely reach mid-calf or Jeannie’s baggy bright red sweatshirt. No bra. No underwear. I find comfort in those sweats. In their shapelessness, their scent and their significance. 

I remember exactly what I ate today.

One time, I started a food journal. The first line read: Don’t eat food fatty. It’s now a joke in my family.

I hate the feeling of excess on my body. Its always there haunting me.

I hate when I feel remorseful after eating.

I binge. A lot.

The other night I ate four slices of pizza. I wish I had stopped myself.

Sometimes I test myself and see how long I can go without eating. I usually don’t last very long.

My stomach screams for food. Gurgles and gargles. Strange noises act as desperate pleas for fulfillment.

There is a stigma around dieting.

I hate when they ask: Are you eating enough?

Her legs swim in her pants…I assume she has a problem.

Jeannie taught me how to pose in pictures so that my body would look the most flattering. I hate posing for pictures. I hate posing. It’s so unnatural.

Natural is a funny concept. The goal is always to look natural, but by unnatural means. So what is natural really?

There is a stigma around eating.

Her boots are saucy.

I idealize her body.

I notice that a lot of fat people have no qualms about sporting halter-tops and short shorts.

Do I really notice that? Or is it that they are fat? Certainly plenty of skinny girls wear halter-tops and short shorts.

I notice them for different reasons. 

She has her father’s nose.

Cosmetic surgery is one of the fastest growing specialties in American medicine.

I generally plot out exactly what I am going to eat for my next meal.

She told me how every night in high school she used to curl up and watch her TV shows and eat an entire carton of ice cream.

When Lauren died, Mrs. Colgan lost about forty pounds. She looks so different. Someone asked me: Have you seen Mrs. Colgan? She looks great. I remember this comment bothered me. She doesn’t look great. She looks empty.

I knew a boy who was bulimic. He used to spit all the time.

My mom says that my friend eats to fill a void.

I don’t like to admit that she’s gotten fat. I love her too much. But she has continued to gain weight. Her eating is excessive to say the least. How can I judge her though, I still have my mom. 

Big pretty legs.

Can big legs be pretty?

I don’t like to feed on impulses. But I do. Eating is one giant impulse.

My butt is a source of constant anxiety.

Cottage cheese is a supplement of choice these days. I hate the curdled texture. It makes me gag.

My sister told me that a dormitory at a boarding school was shut down recently because the pipes were completely deteriorated from vomit.

“No Calories,” no fun. No taste, rather. 

The rack of health bars stands in opposition to the candy bars.

I could stand in that aisle in constant flux. Tormented.

You know what you want. But, you don’t want the consequences. What do you want? What do I want?

Our culture is consumption. Consumption of ideals.

Was there ever a self-loving dame? I do not know.

Smoke is like air in Europe, it’s everywhere. It follows you around like a shadow. I hate smoking. I hate that my brother smokes. When it comes to my brother’s smoking, I sound like a broken record. Did you know that there are over one thousand different toxins in every cigarette? Well, there are. I found myself talking to myself so I changed my strategy. I became a collector. I collected the warnings on cigarette cartons (the one’s in Europe are the most intriguing). My favorite reads: Smoking can reduce blood flow and may cause impotence. It seems more convincing than some of my old material. 

The hall ran red. Caked blood covered the carpet, the walls, shards of broken glass. It wasn’t bright red, it was darker. Like the nail polish on my toes. I think it is called “Sole Mate”, very clever. My thoughts move away from different shades of deep maroons and purples back to the gore of the scene. I think of the worst possible outcome. Slit tendons. Cut, raw flesh. Fibrous tissues severed in fits of rage. But where were the victims? No sign of life taken, no sign of life at all.  

There was this pottery store with a whole section of pitchers. Some more stout, others more rotund, some polished and some more refined. She collects pitchers. This makes my selection more of a challenge. The artist, Richard Batterham. He only fires up his kiln a few times a year when the weather and his mood are aligned. The cashier tells me he has a cult following of collectors. None of his pieces are exactly the same. Most have imperfections. Sounds like her man, less wedded to the ideals of perfection. More spiritual. Richard Batterham sounds fascinating. I think it’s a match. My mother is a fascinating woman. 

“The reports Eleanor Roosevelt filed about her 1958 trip to the USSR did not match her outstanding reportage during her 1957 visit” she said in an unintentionally seductive voice.

The cat looks ancient, decrepit. One foot in the grave.

A freckle-faced redhead hoards marbles in the schoolyard.

I role my eyes at their drooling faces. 

Stretching is an extremely arduous task for old Mr. Ruffles.

Redheads are prone to blushing.

Her hips undulate as she spells out “E” “L” “E” “A” “N” “O” “R” on the chalkboard.

Mr. Ruffles is not shy, but he has become less interactive as he has aged. 

I spy the redhead, sweaty palms bracing his desk, in my peripheral vision.

As she turns, there is a strange sensation, the feeling you get when you gasp for breath.

Sometimes, I secretly wish she would become decrepit like Mr. Ruffles.

She calls on panic-stricken freckles. 

Standing in this field at dusk, the corn stalks outnumber. They stand tall, but not firm. Swaying back and forth together in an endless repetition. The sky seems bleak set against the stalk’s perturbed mustard coloring.

Green stalks simmer in the boiling water. Juices ooze from the flesh and produce a lime green liquid. The aroma is equally off-putting and pungent. It’s the same lime-green color of the stains on the paint-chipped walls.

The ebb and flow of light splashing waves sounds of soothing comfort. Desire to test and tease toes. A warm sensation confirms this irresistible inclination, but it is a tease. The water goes back out again. 

words: stew, flank, twitter, jackal 

She always told me about her famous stew. A family’s secrets invested in the ingredients. Broth, flank steak, celery, leeks. I would hazard my guesses, but this was just mindless twitter. The stew was usually concocted on special occasions. Nights when jackals, ghosts and monsters of small children were unearthed.

Why can’t we see through things, like we can see through glass? Like why could Conor not see how stupid it would be to punch the glass case that holds the fire extinguisher? He ended up in the emergency room and our whole hallway looked like a scene from a horror film with blood everywhere staining the walls and carpet a deep red. It was such destructive behavior. Perhaps it is because glass is so fragile, but whenever I think about glass, I think of it broken. In its most threatening form. I think the history of glass is doomed to be a violent one. 

250 word short

He smiles in a frown. Out of politeness, not sincerity. His uniform shirt, sky blue, is tucked in with a white towel strung through one of his pant loops. Years are visible in his whitish, grey hair and his stretched, wrinkly skin. Spots from summers when he was young speckle his stoic face. As I approach, I notice his hands working meticulously, but idly. Stalking back and forth behind the bar, opening and closing drawers, cleaning the knobs of each machine. He pauses to wipe a spot on the freezer. Like a surgeon, back and forth, scrubbing a spot that does not seem to exist. Scrubbing to occupy his time, scrubbing in waiting. Turning, he notices my presence and the wait is over. Eye-locked but separated by a counter, he stares at me through glasses that sit low on his nose. He listens to my order and turns away from me. Banging out the coffee grinds, he begins to work the machine mindlessly. An exchange occurs. A vanilla latte with skim milk for three wrinkled dollar bills and a couple of my precious quarters. But this is a silent exchange. Again, he smiles in a frown. And I turn to walk away, relieved.  

Description

He smiles in a frown. Out of politeness, not sincerity. His uniform shirt, sky blue, is tucked in and a white towel is strung through one of his pant loops. His years are visible from his whitish, grey hair and from his stretched, wrinkly skin. Spots from summers when he was young speckle his stoic face.

Movement / Behavior

His wrinkled hands work meticulously, but idly. Stalking back and forth behind the bar, opening and closing drawers, cleaning the knobs of each machine, he stops briefly to wipe the unoccupied counter and starts to stalk again. He pauses to wipe a spot on the freezer handle. Back and forth, scrubbing a spot that does not seem to exist. Scrubbing to occupy his time, scrubbing in waiting.

Description w/ me involved

He stares at me through glasses that sit low on his nose. Eye-locked but separated by a counter. He listens to my order and turns away from me. Banging out the coffee grinds, he begins to work the machine mindlessly. An exchange occurs. A vanilla latte with skim milk for three wrinkled dollar bills and a couple of my precious quarters. But this is a silent exchange. Again, he smiles in a frown and I turn away from him.