DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #150 - rebel yell

* mentions of eating disorders *

فيزا

Okay, so... once again, updates from the Western front. More like, updates from your on the road, nomadic West Bank native habibti. Everything is going well here, and apparently, my nausea, my anxiety and my raging acid reflux have gotten a lot better since I booked an appointment with Rami's wife. Short after my call with her, I slipped into the bathub, I showered, and overall made myself look less crusty. I didn't do my makeup, because I was instructed to head to the photoshoot with a bare face... but washing, rinsing, spraying cologne over myself and into my hair, and getting into a decent fit for the day definitely helped me feel less bad with myself. I wore a midi, super tight and figure enhancing black dress, probably a bit too daring for my figure. I paired it with ankle boots, my most trusted faux fur, golden jewelry, and the most expensive bag I own... and I just left the room with Sean. Destination? The lunch I won't eat, because I'm on the skinny model girl diet, while my boyfriend could devour the legs of the table, and still stay lean. Shucks.

Now we're at a restaurant, an Italian restaurant on the same streetwalk as the hotel... and while my homelessly clad boyfriend is toying with the keys of his bike, waiting for our main dishes that still haven't arrived to the table... his overdressed, overdramatic girlfriend is just nervously drawing circles over the tablecloth. Thinking about excuses to bring to the table, no pun intended, in order not to eat the giant fucking pizza that her boyfriend ordered for her against her will.

He looks at me, half a smile on his lips, and makes sure I lower my glance on the yummy looking tray of Italian appetizers laid on the table, right between the two of us. I just shrug as to tell that I'm not hungry (I'm starving), and I just dramatically wrap my lips around the straw of my diet coke. His stare gets a bit too insistent for my personal taste... and in order to rub it off me, I just get a forkful of salad from the appetizers plate, and stuff my mouth with it. He shrugs as if to say that I'm a lost cause, that trying with me ain't even worth the effort... and I sigh, because I know he's right, but I just can't make myself feel any better for him. The person I love the most. I can't even eat a slice of mozzarella and a breadstick to make my boyfriend 'happy'...and man, this sucks.

In the blink of an eye, the waitress approaches us with plates in hand, and lays two yummy looking pizzas well over our table. I thank her, of course in Italian because she is Italian, and I love Italians and the Italian language... but I also thank goodness along the way, because the smell of fresh cooked, warm pizza ain't triggering my nausea. This is my sign that I ain't pregnant with Mr. McKinney's baby, and it's enough to calm me down a little. A little but not entirely... because as Sean is slicing my pizza in four, Four not as in Honda, sadly... I feel like crying in eating disorder. I know I have no escape from him and his force feeding, and man, I don't fucking wanna eat, leave alone being force fed. I only received one instruction to follow for my photoshoot, and it is to show up there with an empty stomach, because the dress I'll be wearing is very, very tight, rib breaking even... but no way I'm gonna follow it. My boyfriend ain't gonna let me follow it, and his legit willingness to make sure that I'll eat something is giving me crippling anxiety. Sean has just finished slicing my pizza, he's now pouring me some red wine to corrupt me into eating, and he's motioning me to go take a seat on his lap. In a restaurant full of people, he wants to fucking eat with me sitting on his fucking lap, and I find the thing so fucking sweet... but too challenging for me. Reason why I just look away, slide my hand into my (stolen, eek) Fendi baguette bag, and pull my lip liner and travel size mirror out of it. And while Sean is giving me the eyes, I'm out there lining the arc of my lips in a very flattering, deep shade of caramel brown. I'm a mess, but at least my lips are poppin'... and if you ask me, no, the thing ain't helping me feel any better with myself.