When you weigh a scant one-hundred and forty-five pounds, you can't really afford to lose much, so it's unfortunate that I've developed some tenacious form of food poisoning.

Some bad chicken struts in on the heels of a nasty cold and I've suddenly got two solid weeks of no appetite.

Sitting on the subway today, I attempted to admire my new haircut, but all I could see was the tremendous difference between the size of my neck and the size of my head.

"It's like an orange on a toothpick!" one could say.

There's not much distance between fashion statement and famine statement. Your quasi-indy nerdy chic can quickly become a third-world Christian fundraising poster if you don�t eat your wheaties.

And when your body minimizes, why doesn�t it ever take from the ample parts? Like this teensy little pudge about my middle? My muscles could atrophy to the point of motionlessness and I�d still have that tiny little barrier between a thin toneless stomach and a flat toneless stomach.

And you want to eat, you wish you could eat, but every bite sends you to the can for another session of high speed purging. One exit or another, it�s going to come back to haunt you.

Everything in the fridge turns my stomach and nothing at the store tempts my tongue. I could complain about bigger things in my life right now, but I really just want my appetite back.