“Worst day of my life?” I said, swirling the bottle of unknown alcohol absentmindedly. “Everyday. Everyday the demon inside me says that if I just WANT it enough, I could eat nothing today. Tells me how wonderfully accomplished I’d feel at the end of the day. And how I’d be one step closer to perfect. How I’ll be lovely then. Everyone will know. Everyone will love me. And then when I do eat and I sit in the bathroom stall, hating that full feeling in my stomach, punching myself cause I think that that’ll make my stomach flatter, all while staring at the toilet."
Everyone looked at me silently.
“Best day?” I continued, “Perfection. That day when I can look in a mirror and not hate myself. That day, I’ll be happy.”
I held the bottle in my hand, realizing that I hadn’t drank anything yet.
I paused.
I hadn’t eaten all day.
The emptiness ate at me.
I DESERVED this drink.
And then I passed it along.
“My best day could be tomorrow,” I said to the worried faces, smiling. “Alcohol just isn’t worth the calories.”

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