I once knew someone who bought six six packs of Snicker bars, a bottle of Coke and three bottles of strawberry syrup.
She locked herself in her room and sat there– eating.
She wasn’t gouging, or bingeing.
There was something methodical about the way she ate.
In a span of an hour she would come out thrice as energetic as when she had come in.
She would jump up and down and dance to the music of her time– unconscious of how people looked at her and what they thought.
It was a beautiful sight to behold– a free spirit, living the dream, loving her life as though she had almost lost it during a point in her existence.
In the morning she would be dead tired– dizzy, woozy and a bit dazed.
She would end up going to class late, and risking her chances of dropping out of college.
But she would get back to it during the evenings.
The chocolate bars– the syrup– the ice cream– the kisses.
“I love the high,” she told me. “I love the high.”