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I can't remember the last time I ate, so I laugh. It's just one of my attempts at godliness. Or maybe not. I can't stand the fucking food. It's sickening, everything is sickening. I'm sickening. And I stare with blank eyes at nothing. It's so hard to focus, but what's there to look at when you're alone? I feel my body reeling, refusing it. I don't believe in male anorexia. The emaciated arms, tired mind, endless lethargy, they mean nothing.

My despair grows all the more extreme. But I love it when I waste away. I love it when I can kill me softly, slowly, gradually. I can't see the end, and the world is disgusting.

Know that it can happen to you.

It happened to me.

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