Last night:

Hey, beautiful. I'm achey and my fingers kind of burn, so, screw the step-by-step update. This is my forty-forth hour of not-eating.

hyphens!! hyphenns!!

And I'm asking myself how I feel, like I have been, inasmuch as that is the ostensible purpose of this whole venture.

My mouth and eyes seem to have sunk behind my nose, which is king of everything except my feet. And my feet are huge, like my hands, which swing from absurdly long pendulums. There's a pain from my throat to my stomach, like heartburn-- I imagine that this is my stomach acid saying, we know you've got something stored up there somewhere, biotch.

Umm. Like I said before, my hands are hungry. They keep grabbing at stuff. Skimming over things. Other than that, nothing. Except, there's a tingle on either side of my face, on the inside-- like, right behind and above the jawbone. I think those are my salivary glands. They're tingly.

I think about food. I was telling Tan earlier-- it's amazing. I can close my eyes and recall in perfect detail the taste and texture of, a strawberry milkshake, or a cheeseburger, or a chicken salad sandwich, milano cookies . . . Gritty and solid and juicy. Like my mouth. My quiet, small mouth.

And, it's weird. I am less hungry when I imagine those things. I want them, but I feel calm about it. Like, um-- biting the dog back? Something like that.

I've gotten alot of writing done today. Nothing complete, but I'm ready to settle into some fiction. Want comfortable. Warm, solid, juicy.

Want life. Want to listen to people saying things to other people.

My ma said earlier, "Erin, let dog in," and I thought, oh my god, I've infected my family with my Bridget Jones.

this morning:

Went to bed early, am up at eight. Right before I went to bed, I read the most incredibly sexy story ever, by Calico, who is magic-- so I figured, hey, I'll have incredibly sexy dreams.

So, I dream about Angela Lansbury. --Not in a sexy way. If indeed there are sexy Angela Lansbury dreams to be had. She and this British gentlement were out walking, investigating I suppose, and Ms.Lansbury fell through some ice. The gentlemen pulled her to safety, and then called all kinds of emergency numbers to take care of her-- but the numbers were all busy, so he called his own house, and his wife was all, don't worry about it, calm down, just go with the flow. And then she was like, don't you sleep with Angela Lansbury.

So. It's time to break my fast. But, guess what. I'm not hungry.

There's a reluctance.

So this is my plan.

I'm going to ritualize it. I'm going to put on Lise's Pop Idols cd and get dressed, and brush my teeth, and I'm going to gather together a book, or a notebook, and go to Perkins and order the french toast. And eat it.

I've been fantizising about the Perkins french toast. To tell you the truth, the thought makes me a little bleh, now.

Like, food? who eats food? that's so blase. or something.

But I need to break my fast, because you can't say, I'm going to fast for two days, and then just decide to go longer. And I have to storm the zoo tomorrow so I can't be all, y'know. fasty.

So.

French toast.

Are we alive, y'all?

Luck from my love affairs. Love.

Alestar,
I woke up this morning and the sun was gone.