Bulimic Party
Every time I leave my apartment in the Bay to come home I worry that my bulimic roommate will celebrate my absence by indulging further in her bulimia. When I think about it to myself (in my head) I call it a "Bulimic Party"; occasionally I will accidentally mention bulimic parties to others and then have to try to explain it without giving too much away (as it is not my place to blab to anyone, barring the internet, about my roommate's eating disorder). I have never really thought about what goes on at the bulimic party (aside from the obvious bulimia), but I would imagine that it involves listening to loud music and ordering lots of take out. Sometimes I feel sad that I do not get invited to these parties, but then I remember that I am not bulimic and that I hate vomit. Still, ordering lots of take-out sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.


R.I.P. Brad Bear 1988 - 2005
Today I had to throw out my teddy bear and it almost broke my heart. I was four when I got him; at two feet he was almost bigger than I was. He went almost every where with me, and each night I'd haul him up in to bed with me. For nearly seventeen years he served me well, my glorious bear.. He endured injuries of all kinds (a nose that was chewed off by an teething puppy), some that were even a mystery to me in origin (the hole in his crotch.. I think he was busier than I knew).. But of all things to take him out of the game of life for good, it was a shot to the knee that delivered the final blow. 'A shot of what?' you may be asking yourself.. To put it simply, my dog had diarrhea. A teddy bear, no matter how great, never recovers from diarrhea.