eating caviar and starving

I'm eating caviar and starving. I'm out of money, the check cards are empty and I'm scared to death of credit. It ruined my parents' marriage. (credit, not caviar)

Today, while rehearsing in a hot sweaty classroom and while covered in robes and also while busy crawling on my knees adopting the deep (fake) register of a grisled British accent-having wizard, I almost passed out. Everything went wierd and wavy, my head felt empty and heavy and sick...and I liked it. I'm starving and it kind of feels good.

I would like, when I get back to New York, for people who have not seen me for two weeks to look hard at my legs and my waist and my face and worry. I would like to look like a ravaged Picasso scribbling in his own blood and spit. Starved and extreme.

I am staying with my bosses. They are a wonderful couple who have repeatedly insisted I eat, eat, eat anything in the house. However, I am one of those unfortunate individuals that was cursed with a Southern upbringing too proud to accept kindness. Kindness means charity. Charity means pity.

I am stubborn as a weed. Stubborn as a mule, as a mile, as heat on pavement, as a splinter. Hungry as I am, I feel funny frying up someone else's eggs and pouring glasses of someone else's milk. I certainly can't make myself anything frozen. Those are specifically bought entrees. They feel personal.

They have crackers and caviar and I have been stealing them.

I suppose it's not really stealing if you have been granted permission to eat, eat, eat anything in the house. However, I do not feel this permission extends to the caviar. Caviar seems expensive. I do not know for sure, as I have never, ever bought caviar, but it tastes expensive.

So as not to arouse suspicion, I lick the knife clean every time I airlessly lift the little black jar from the refrigerator, unscrew the cap (while humming or talking to myself to muffle the noise) and dip just a little of the caviar onto a peppered water cracker. I lick the knife clean and place it back in the drawer. (Adding a new knife to the dishwasher each time might arouse suspicion, as would running the water to wash it myself.)

I do this several times a day, whenever I feel it is safe, whenever I feel the hunger has reached a ridiculous pinnacle and perhaps has grown beyond the walls of my room. I eat caviar crouched down in the kitchen over the trash can, ready to mock "cleaning up a bit" should anyone walk in. The thing about caviar and crackers: they can be consumed quickly, and with stealth.

The jar is getting low and I more desperate. Should I begin replacing the little black eggs with little black coffee grounds to disguise my progress? Should I kill a pigeon, rob a Denny's, confess that "I really don't eat when it's hot." is a lie?

I think I'll just keep eating caviar and starving.