So, last night I ate 15 baby back ribs. That's 2 kilos of pure meat. It was awesome. Today my stomach hurts. I imagine that my stomach is sitting in one of those spinning chairs that Bond villains always sit in when Bond enters; petting my appendicitis like a white Persian cat and welcoming every large chunk of meat with a "Ah, large portion of food not suitable for healthy diet - I have expected you." I have always had a complicated relationship to food in general; having been through several turns of eating disorders, eating has always been one of my biggest loves and fears. Thanks to the removal of my thyroid a couple of years ago due to a cyst, I have an unusually high metabolism (not in a "I bet there's a Dorian Gray-like picture of her growing fatter and fatter somewhere in an attic"-way, but in a way that people suspect that I lie about my diet) which is both a blessing and a curse; I have an appetite greater than any normal 20-year-old girl, and can easily consume a kilo of candy in one sitting, half a kilo of marzipan between meals and just endless amounts of meat. Sure, sounds like heaven - apart from the fact that my binge eating caises me terrible panic attacks and regret. I don't even understand how those model girls can manage through the day on just one little stupid salad, denying themselves a second portion because they inhaled a large amount of dust for lunch or something like that - I think constantly of food, counting the hours to my next meal. It's not even remotely healthy, but I have come to terms with it, and yesterday's feast was a victory - I didn't feel guilty for one second after my sixth portion of ribs. So, ladies and gentlemen (you three people who actually will read this), I present to you: My Everest. My sad, sad, delicious Everest.