FEELING GOOD

of my life, I somehow convinced myself that shoving my fingers down my throat and forcing myself to vomit away whatever I had just eaten was the way to exercise control. The notion, as utterly stupid as it sounds, proved hard to shake. This bad habit of mine started when I became a teen whose physical appearance was eerily reminiscent of the Pillsbury Doughboy and lasted off and on if he did a lot of pushups to overcompensate for the fact that he basically needed a bra as a teenage boy.