I need to have sex. I want to crawl into our bed, into Andy's arms. I wish we could be having sex all the time, because then he would be attached to me.

He's at work now. He has no idea what I do during the day. Neither do I, so I don't like to start doing it until after he leaves. I'm always scared I won't do anything and he'll find out. Then he'll dump me because the only thing I've accomplished in my life is to fill my emptiness with his penis. Andy doesn't need me for survival.

I try to spend my day the way people who take care of themselves do. I sit at the breakfast table looking at Andy's empty chair and my empty cereal bowl and wonder what exactly those people do. What if I never do anything satisfying in my whole life? The thought is too scary so I have some bananas and peanut butter and some chocolate milk to wash it down, and when I finish I say to myself, OK, what should I do now? Then I go into the kitchen and make another batch of coated bananas. Soon even those three seconds when I ask myself, What now? are too much, so I bring the peanut butter, bananas and chocolate milk into the breakfast room.

Then I throw up.

I spend the rest of the day distracting myself from food. I masturbate. I primp myself, and I wait for Andy to come home from work and carry me off to bed.

Then I'll be free from the temptation of food and I'll be able to do something productive with myself.

That's such a lie. I'm just thinking it to see how it sounds. Really, when Andy comes home, he holds me, he comes, he goes to sleep, and then he's as good as an empty chocolate milk container.