Beer Gut.
Back to the Beginning.
It was her party, everyone was there for her. There to celebrate her big day – her birthday. She should have been happy, but all she could think about was the amount of calories that were being put into her body every time she took a sip of her beer. The average amount of calories in one beer was around 145 calories, though it varied from beer to beer. It takes about 25 minutes of walking to burn off that amount of calories, with the amount of beers the tiny girl had already drank that would mean she would have to be on the treadmill for about two hours already. If you added on all the other sugary filled drinks it would probably push it up a bit more, but she didn’t want to think about that.
The girl had a good run; she hadn’t made herself throw up in a very long time now. She had gotten help, she was better now. That was all she had to keep telling herself, that she was better now. But there was still that nagging voice in the back of her head that told her she wasn’t perfect, she could do with a few extra pounds coming off her stomach and thighs. She would never wear anything that exposed her legs too much, they were too fat. A belly button ring was out of the question too, who would want to see her flabby stomach. The sad part was the poor, petite girl only weighed a mere 48 kilograms, which was tiny for her height stature. Her hip bones stuck out and her legs were about a quarter of the size of most girls she knew.
She wandered outside, craving a cigarette – the deep inhale, then exhale. She needed it. She found her roommate outside, sitting on the steps. She wasn’t what you would call a classy lady, she was somewhere between her late 30’s to mid 40’s; she didn’t dress to impress anybody but her own comfort. A pair of leggings and a baggy jumper would do. She swore like a sailor and wore her hair frizzy and unkempt; she was grasping a glass of wine and had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. The girl sat down next to her roommate and lit up a cigarette.
“I’m so sick of seeing food,” the girl groaned, taking another deep drag from her cigarette, “It makes me feel ill.”
“Food’s good for you honey,” her roommate whispered.
“I know,” the girl sighed, “But not everywhere you look.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the woman winked, rubbing her large, protruding stomach.
“You’re so terrible,” the girl giggled, putting out her cigarette in the thick, glass ashtray that sat on the cold cement ground, “See you inside!” she smiled, skipping back into the house.
She walked into the bathroom and stared at herself in the vanity mirror, she hated what she saw. She felt sick just looking at her reflection.
“You’re fucking worthless.” She spat.
And with that, she stuck her bony, little finger down her throat and let all the beer and sugary contents that filled her stomach come back up. After months of not throwing up and trying to convince herself that she was better, she was right back at the beginning again - right back where she started.
The girl had a good run; she hadn’t made herself throw up in a very long time now. She had gotten help, she was better now. That was all she had to keep telling herself, that she was better now. But there was still that nagging voice in the back of her head that told her she wasn’t perfect, she could do with a few extra pounds coming off her stomach and thighs. She would never wear anything that exposed her legs too much, they were too fat. A belly button ring was out of the question too, who would want to see her flabby stomach. The sad part was the poor, petite girl only weighed a mere 48 kilograms, which was tiny for her height stature. Her hip bones stuck out and her legs were about a quarter of the size of most girls she knew.
She wandered outside, craving a cigarette – the deep inhale, then exhale. She needed it. She found her roommate outside, sitting on the steps. She wasn’t what you would call a classy lady, she was somewhere between her late 30’s to mid 40’s; she didn’t dress to impress anybody but her own comfort. A pair of leggings and a baggy jumper would do. She swore like a sailor and wore her hair frizzy and unkempt; she was grasping a glass of wine and had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. The girl sat down next to her roommate and lit up a cigarette.
“I’m so sick of seeing food,” the girl groaned, taking another deep drag from her cigarette, “It makes me feel ill.”
“Food’s good for you honey,” her roommate whispered.
“I know,” the girl sighed, “But not everywhere you look.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the woman winked, rubbing her large, protruding stomach.
“You’re so terrible,” the girl giggled, putting out her cigarette in the thick, glass ashtray that sat on the cold cement ground, “See you inside!” she smiled, skipping back into the house.
She walked into the bathroom and stared at herself in the vanity mirror, she hated what she saw. She felt sick just looking at her reflection.
“You’re fucking worthless.” She spat.
And with that, she stuck her bony, little finger down her throat and let all the beer and sugary contents that filled her stomach come back up. After months of not throwing up and trying to convince herself that she was better, she was right back at the beginning again - right back where she started.
♠ ♠ ♠
This was actually inspired by some real life events, not my own though.