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How To Become A Bulimic Outcast

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With my first step off that fateful bus, I experienced two emotions, renewal and fear.

My evil, father, John, or as I like to refer to him as Homo Hitler found me to much of a hassle to look over so he sent me off as if I were a friggin’ Christmas card to my Aunt Haddie for the summer.

Happy Holidays.

I don’t really remember Haddie much. Back when my dad and I were living in Tennessee and he still had his southern twang, she often babysat me when he had a business trip. But after he hauled me off to New York he dropped his relations with his only sibling along with exchanging his twang with a feminine accent. VERY feminine.

Without a single ounce of hesitance, a flaming red haired woman standing by a bench at the bus station ran up to me, throwing me in her grasp.

“Um…. Haddie?” I gasped. For such a tiny lady this chick had an iron grip.

“Johnnie, you’ve gotten so big.” she exulted in my hair.

“Thanks.” I patted her back lightly. What the hell was I supposed to do? She released me from her grip and held me at arms length. Examining me. I suddenly felt self-conscious. Kind of like what a snake must feel like at the zoo when all the little brats are tapping on the glass with their sticky little fingers.

“ Wow, you’re so skinny.” She seemed almost worried. Of course Homo Hitler told her.

I’ve never denied the idea of being bulimic. I was completely aware of what I was doing even the first time I stuck my finger in my throat and the acidic food rose up my throat. The only thought that was going through my mind the first time was ‘Oh shit. Guess I’m bulimic now.’ It worked great. Things just went kind of down hill when dad caught on. He started making me sit at the table for thirty minutes after eating something or he wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom at a restraunt. So in his last effort to help me, I was sent to this hell hole where I was to serve the rest of the summer.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Great, some bratty, sarcastic, melodramatic teenager. What else is new. But I’m really not, I swear. I’ve seen those movies with the rebellious cliché of a nineties teenager. I’m a good kid. Always have been. I don’t talk back to my elders. Never been out all night at wild sex orgies or stolen my parent’s car to buy beer. Really, I was more of a parent than my own father. But all in all I’m a pretty good kid with mature and thoughtful actions.

“Thanks.” I ignored the negativity.

“ Well, I bet you’re hungry. I’m starving.” she grabbed my bag out of my hand. I claimed the rest.
We walked to the parking lot, stopping in front of a outdated Station Wagon. Without saying another word we loaded the ever extending backseat and got in.

After driving in silence for at least five minutes Haddie finally talked.

“So how was school? Did you get good grades?” I could tell she was just trying to make small talk but nonetheless it bothered me to no end.

“Good. Mostly Bs. “ I looked out the window towards the late Tennessee sky. It was sort of pretty. Ok, so it was beautiful.

“that’s good. Your dad was always so smart.” she nodded. I glanced over at her. Really taking her in.

Haddie really was beautiful. She had long flowing curls and a striking figure. Her nose was small, not very distinctive and her eyes, when I finally caught a glimpse, were a light color, almost clear but still managing a light sea of green in them.

In a way I was jealous. Very jealous.


“ Yeah, he is.” I clenched my teeth at the reminder of him.



Hating my father wasn’t always the status of our relationship. When I was four years old my small, naive world revolved around him. I shadowed everything he did. Even back then my mom despised him but, oddly enough they stayed together until she finally left when I was seven.

After my mom left something changed. I don’t know what exactly but as I entered third and forth grade I realized that none of my friends had gay parents. One night during one of my basketball games in sixth grade, I was sitting on the bench, waiting for the coach to put me in. I looked behind me in the stands for my father. There he was, waving energetically. Beside him, his then-boyfriend, Steve. My heart must have fallen out of my chest. My former friend at the time looked behind as well and asked who the man was.

“ That’s my dad’s boyfriend.” I mumbled to myself, my ears ringing with rage.

“ What?” She asked, stunned. “You’re dad’s gay?” She nearly shouted it. All the others sitting on the bench darted their eyes at me, flabbergasted. All I could do was nod. “ no wonder she’s so messed up.” she giggled to the person beside her. That ended our friendship along with my place in the school as a normal kid.



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