If there’s anything nice about being in a lot of trouble, it’s knowing that it won’t last forever.  I remember one time I got in a car accident and I just knew my foster Dad was really going to make me pay for it.  And he did.  But as I laid there while he let me have it, I knew at some point, whether it was 20 minutes away or a year later, things would be back to normal.  But the situation I’m in right now probably isn’t going to get better.  In fact, it could only get worse. 

Candice wasn’t standing there pointing the gun at my face.  She had turned into someone else.  She stood there with nothing behind her eyes as she chewed on her lip.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat back, leaned against the bed and tried to get comfortable.  “You did this,” she said quietly.  “You did all of this.  What have you done to me?  You’ve ruined everything.”  Her hand began to tremble.  If it was rage, I was in trouble.  If it was sadness or fear, I had a chance.

My stomach growled.  After all of this I was still starving.  “You see!”  Candice yelled, responding to my stomach.  “Something is seriously wrong with you.  I was your friend and I was trying to help and now look at this.  Well, I’m not throwing away my life just because you’re a freak.”  This had to be fear talking.  I just needed her to cry or something.  I needed her to do anything that would distract her for just a moment so I could jump at her and get her gun. 

“I’m going to shoot you in the side of your head.  I’m gonna put the gun in your hand they’re gonna think you did all of this.  I’m not going to jail forever for you.  You crazy bitch.”  God damn I was hungry and this is getting boring.  “I get it.  Just fucking finish your speech and shoot me,” I said, licking some of the crusted blood off my lips.  “Fuck you!”  She screamed.  She took a step closer to me and that’s all I needed.

I lunged at her like a rattlesnake and grabbed her arm.  I sank my teeth into her forearm until I felt bone and she let out a banshee scream.  The gun fell to the ground and before it bounced, I had pushed Candice to the wall and picked up the gun.  I stood up on my feet which was difficult because of my rotted foot, but I held my ground.  Candice was slow to get up, because she knew she just got pwned.  Now came the waterworks.  “What are we doing?” she cried.  “We’re supposed to be friends.  This is insane.”  I shook my head.  All I could do was tell her the truth.  “I’m sorry Candice,” I said.  “I’m just so hungry.”

It looked like a water ballon full of red paint and dog food was thrown against my wall when I shot Candice in the head.  I had never fired a gun before.  It’s like holding a roman candle but with a lot more oomph.  It was also really loud.  As Candice laid on the ground, painting my floor a different shade of red than Eesha, and as the ringing in my ears began to fade, I could hear the comforting sound of police sirens.  Most people hate or fear that sound, but I think the sirens are comforting.  It means help is on the way.  I might as well have a snack before they get here.  It’s going to be a long night and after all this exercising, I was ready to eat.

I limped into my kitchen, taking my time.  It was so quiet and you could hear the floor creak with every step I took.  My heart was still thumping in my throat which was sore from all the screaming, so I grabbed my butcher knife so I wouldn’t have to rip everything out with my teeth.  As I held the cheap steel, I looked over my body.  I was real hungry and needed something thick and filling.  I’ve always liked my legs so I didn’t want to ruin those.  I’ve always had a small chest, which may have caused my abridged acting career, so there wasn’t much to eat there either.  But underneath my chest was where the money was: My heart.  After the cardio workout I just finished, I’ve got a rock-solid ticker.  And boy, that sounds pretty fucking amazing right now.

The butcher knife cut through my chest bone easier than I thought it would.  I sawed through it the best I could and once my arm got tired, I cranked the knife clockwise like a screwdriver.  I held the knife in place with my teeth and was able to make a cavity large enough for my hand to reach in and grab my pounding heart.  It was warm and had the texture of a stiff tongue.

Before I pulled it out, I briefly reflected on the current situation.  It’s really quite funny if you look at it.  Two weeks ago all I cared about was getting a part in a movie and making enough money to pay my rent and buy a meal.  But now I realize none of that mattered.  I’m in love, I have the best friend in the world, and have a woman who looks after me like her own daughter.  Nothing could be better than that.  And with that thought in my head, I pulled out my heart and ate as much of it as I could before falling asleep.  Everything went to black.  It was warm and quiet and that was nice.  Nothing was wrong anymore.  And to top it all off, I had just finished the best meal I ever ate. 

The End.

The human vocal chords are so weird.  You have these little strings of human tissue and when air blows through them, it makes noise.  As humans, we learn to control these noises into sounds and eventually into words.  People who have accents, speech impediments, cool voices, or annoying voices, all have the same little chords.  How cool is that?  I’m pretty sure I tore mine apart by screaming when I saw Simon.

With rage pumping through my veins like adrenaline, I ripped my left arm free by breaking the bed post.  The belt and post swung around and blasted Candice in the face.  I loosened my right arm and feet and then jumped on Candice.  I only had one arm to fight with but I made the most out of it.  I bashed in her face as hard as I could, screaming like a feral cat.  Since she’s stronger and tougher than I am, she pulled me to the ground, got on top of me and squeezed the rotting tissue around my right forearm.  This hurt like hell and it stopped me.

“What are you doing?  I did you a favor,” she yelled.  Through tears and pain I screamed back, “How could you kill him?  Why did you do that?”  Candice looked completely frustrated and held back the urge to knock me out again, “He was a cheating pig and now you can eat him without hurting yourself.”  “I’m not a cannibal, you dumb bitch!” I said.  “Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked.  Good question.

I’m sure this could have gone on for a while, but something much more important interrupted us . . . the doorbell.  The sound of that simple bell silenced us like two kids hearing their parents coming up the stairs.  “You stay here,” Candice said as she got up.  “No, I’ll answer it,” I responded.  Candice shoved me to the bed and said, “Look at you.  You look like a monster.  I’ll handle this.”  She walked to the door as I inspected myself.  I did look like a monster.  I looked like a gutted turkey after Thanksgiving.  I used to be so pretty.  What happened?

I heard the door crack open and then the sound of trouble, “Oh hello.  Where’s Novi?” Eesha asked in her sweet voice.  I limped to the hallway to make sure Candice wasn’t going to mess anything up.  “She’s not here right now, thanks.”  Candice said as she tried to shut the door.  She obviously doesn’t know Eesha won’t give up that easily.  The landlady stuck her foot in between the door and the doorway forcing it to stay open.  “I heard a very bad scream,” Eesha said, “Where’s Novi?”  That old bitch was still looking out for me.  

“I’m here Eesha and I’m fine, thanks.”  I said, my voice still shaken from everything.  “Novi, is that you?” she asked.  “Yeah, she’s fine lady.  Please leave now.” Candice shoved the door on Eesha’s foot causing her to cry out.  “What is going on?” she demanded. “I’m calling the police.”  She turned, but I jumped out from the hallway, “No Eesha, it’s fine really.”  I called after her.  She looked back at me, and that was that.

She ran into the room, shoved Candice out of the way and embraced me.  “Oh my, Novi!  What has happened to you?  What has this person done to you?  We must get you to a hospital.”  I didn’t notice Candice lock the door as Eesha basically carried me into the bedroom.  She was trying to rest me on my bed but tripped over Simon.  This caused both of us to take a pretty heavy spill on the ground and she landed awkwardly twisting her knee and with her mouth covering Simon’s bullet hole.  Obviously, she screamed her lungs out, started crying hysterically, and got up to run.  She had enough with helping me and was now looking out for herself.  But it didn’t do much good. 

Candice stood in the doorway, calmly.  As Eesha started screaming and turned to run, Candice lifted her gun and shot Eesha four times in the chest.  Candice didn’t flinch, pause or grimace.  She just squeezed the trigger four times like she was aiming at paper.  Eesha landed on the floor with a thud.  Her eyes were the size of golf balls.  Blood trickled out of her mouth as if the hand of a giant was squeezing her stomach. 

I was starting to get tired of screaming.  And now that I had eaten half of my body, my lover was dead, and my land lady laid beside him, I started to understand that things weren’t going to be ok.  I looked up to Candice with tears in my eyes.  What I saw was the barrel of a gun staring back.

There’s nothing better than a good friend.  They are someone who isn’t related to you and has no reason to be there for you.  But, for some reason, they still stick up for you and help you when you need it.  Why do they do it?  Because they’re your friend.  Do other animal species have friends?  Do monkeys look out for each other in the jungle just because they’ve known each other for years?  That’s something I’d like to find out.  Friends are amazing.  But sometimes, they can be a real pain in the ass.

I spilled my guts to Candice.  Not literally, but I told her the whole deal.  I told her I’m flat broke, that Simon was just using me like all of his patients, and for some reason unknown to me, I take comfort in eating my own flesh.  I cried.  She cried.  It was a really touching moment except for the whole being-strapped-to-the-bed-while-most-of-my-body-bled thing.

She stood up and grabbed her purse.  “Where are you going?” I asked, unsure why she hadn’t untied me from the bed.  “I have to take care of something?”  She responded, checking the contents of her bag.  “What?  Can you let me go before you leave?”  I asked.  “Nope,” she said, “There’s something really wrong with you and I’m not gonna let you kill yourself.  I’ll be back in an hour.”  She started to walk out of the room.  I called after her but she ignored me.  I heard the door slam behind her and I immediately looked around the room, trying to figure out how to escape my shackles.  But then I heard the door open and someone coming up the hall.  Candice stepped into the room and tossed my phone at me.  I winced and jerked my head to avoid it hitting me in the face, but it landed beside me.  “If you need help, call someone with your tongue.”  She said before leaving again.  “It’s a touch screen!”  I pleaded.  But she kept walking.  

I sat there for 30 minutes.  I tried pulling my left arm free but it wouldn’t work.  Stupid leather belt.  My right arm didn’t have a bicep anymore, so it was shot.  I stared at my ceiling for awhile and drew constellations in my mind with the popcorn texturing.  I really had to go to the bathroom.  And then the phone rang.

The ring tone and vibration caused it to slowly rotate and slide close to my butt.  I bent my head over doing the weirdest yoga position imaginable.  I just hoped my iPhone would respond to my tongue.  Success!  How about that?  God bless you, Steve Jobs!  Now to turn on “speaker phone.”  Got it!  No wonder people like to make out with me.  “Hello?”  I called out.  Please don’t be a salesman, because I’m about to ask you a really big favor.

“Novella?”  Simon said at the other end of the line.  Jesus Christ.  What the hell was he calling me for?  This was a really horrible situation.  I needed his help but I’d rather see him burned on a stake.  But like I said, I had to go to the bathroom, so I asked, “Simon, I need your help.”  Apparently the speaker phone kinda sucked because he couldn’t hear me and I could hear a banging noise happening behind him.  

“Why didn’t you show up today?” he asked.

Arrghh!  I want out of here so badly but I also want to call him out right now.  “You’re using me!”  I yelled.  

“What?” he asked.  

"I talked to that girl in your waiting room today.  She told me everything.  She told me how your only patients are women and how you do that to sleep with them.  I know everything, asshole.”  

Boo ya!  

“You talked to who?” he asked. 

“The girl in the waiting room today.”

“Was she blond?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Tracy.  She’s a paranoid schizophrenic.  She was lying to you.”

Bull shit.

“She’s been a patient of mine for two years.  Last month she broke every clock she could get her hands on because she thought they were ticking bombs.”

This can’t be true.

“And I can show you my client list.  There’s you, Tracy, and a woman in her 70s.  Other than you three, I have five male patients.  Trust me on this.”

Oh shit.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

I started to cry.  “No . . . .”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need your help . . . I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?  Baby?”

“I just. . . I need help. . . .”

“Hang on sweetie.  Let me call you back in two seconds.  Someone’s been pounding on my door since I called you.”

“No wait . . . .”

“Two seconds.”  He hung up the phone.

I let my end of the phone turn off by itself.  Was he lying to me?  What he said made sense.  More sense than what the girl told me.  I’ve been seeing him every night for two weeks.  When would he see anyone else?  I don’t even know what’s going on anymore.  I won’t be able to hide my arm from him.  What will I tell him? 

Whenever I cry like that I fall asleep.  My upper body looked like Jesus on the cross.  My arms were stretched out, my head hung limp as I slept, and I was spattered in blood.  It must have been awhile because when I woke up, it was dark.  Rooms get so dark when you don’t turn on the lights and the sun goes down.  Mine was pitch black.  And that’s why it was scary when I heard my front door burst open and someone grunting as they came in.  They were dragging something heavy across my floor, down the hallway, and to my bedroom.  It sounded like someone was dragging a carpet or rug, but much heavier. 

My door kicked open and I could only see the silhouette of a woman.  She reached for the light switch and it seemed like she turned on the sun.  My eyes were so adjusted to the dark it felt like I was blinded.  When my vision came back to me, I saw Candice standing there, huffing and puffing with her foot propped up on a rolled up rug like Captain Morgan.  “What are you so proud of?” I asked her.

She kicked the rug and it unrolled slightly.  She kicked it again.  Then again.  And then one more time to finally reveal her prize.  I’ll never forget the way his big, beautiful hand bounced on the floor lifelessly.  There he was...Simon.  He had a bullet hole in his forehead. 

“Now you have something to eat,” she said, still grinning. 

Is there anything better than the honeymoon phase of a relationship?  It is complete and total happiness pumping through your veins 24 hours a day.  You think about what your special person is doing, what they are thinking, what they are eating.  The honeymoon period is probably better than actual true love.  Maybe not.  I don’t think I’ve ever really experienced true love.

Treatment has been going well.  I’ve been sleeping with Simon for two weeks now and every appointment I have with him, we just end up ripping each other’s clothes off.  It’s the honeymoon phase where we just can’t keep our hands (or in my case, hand) off each other.  Candice is still staying at my house.  We haven’t talked about that night since I shut the door in her face, but I also haven’t been eating myself.  Since I started seeing Simon, we’ve been going out almost every night and he takes me out to a nice dinner every time.  No need to supplement.  But mostly I’m just happy.  I haven’t been this happy in a long time.  I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.

My appointment today is at 2 pm.  I used to go once a week at 11 am, but now we moved it to four times a week in the afternoon.  Like I said, these appointments are fun for both of us.  Last night, I bought some Victoria’s Secret and can’t wait to show him.  That shit’s expensive, so he better like it because he’s gonna be seeing it a bunch from now on.  

When I got to the office, there was a girl sitting in waiting area.  She looked to be in her early 20s, with blond hair and very pretty.  I recognized her from a couple auditions a few years ago.  She probably got the roles and that’s why she has money to see a shrink.  Hopefully it’s because she tried to kill herself.  If she got those roles over me I hope she tried to kill herself. 

I sat across from her and pulled out my phone to look busy.  I noticed she was looking at me and the one time I glanced up and made eye contact, she nailed me, “Are you seeing Simon?”  Oh God.  Now I have to talk to you?  And besides, that’s none of your business bitch!  You can’t ask someone if they’re seeing a psychiatrist.  “I am.  At two,” I said.  I looked back at my phone, but that didn’t stop her.  “No,” she said, “are you sleeping with him?”  This bitch’s about to get a crutch in the face, “Excuse me?” I said, appalled.  “You heard me,” she said bobbing her head side to side and gritting her teeth.  I rolled my eyes but I was seriously ready to beat her ass.  “That’s none of your business,”  I said.  She chuckled, “Wow...I never thought he’d go for a cripple.”  That was it.  I stood up and looked at her right in the face, “What the fuck did you just say to me?!”  She stood up, but calmly, “He does this to all of his patients.  That’s his game.  He only treats women so he can sleep with them.  The crazier the better.  I’m here today to let him know I’m suing his ass.  You should do the same.”

There are different types of hysteria.  There’s the kind where you lose all control and act like a crazy person and the kind where you look normal but could completely explode at the push of a button.  I was somewhere in between.  I tore out of there, raced home, and crashed through my front door.  I smashed my crutches into a dozen pieces and broke every piece of glass in the house.  That was the crazy part of the hysteria.  The calm part was me carefully cutting the cast off my arm and getting ready to tear it apart.

My arm looked like a piece of moldy steak.  The healing skin looked rotted and grey.  I had an appointment to clean it last week, but I skipped it.  So instead of forearm, I went for my bicep, instead.  I crunched my teeth into my muscle and ripped it out like the meat from a turkey bone.  I was gonna pick my arm clean, but then Candice walked in.  She tackled me as I screamed in pain and anger.  She pinned me to the ground by my throat as I instinctively bit at her hand like a rabid dog.  Blood was caked all over my mouth so I wasn’t going to talk my way out of this one.

With her free hand, Candice started punching me in the face.  This hurt like hell, but I can’t blame her.  I looked like a zombie from 28 Days Later trying to get my teeth in her one way or another.  After striking me in the face a dozen times, I finally lost consciousness.  I dreamt about Simon and the doctor at the ER and the bitch at the audition place who asked my weight.  But then it just went to black.  And it was nice.  It was warm and quiet.  Nothing was wrong anymore.  I liked that place.

“Novi....Novi...”  I heard echoing in my head.  I would say it was like a dream, but actually it was like a clichéd movie.  I opened my eyes which felt like dried fruit.  I reached to rub them but couldn’t.  My arms were tied to my bed with my belts.  Same with my feet.  I was strapped to my bed like I was possessed by the devil.  Maybe I was.

“Novi, I’m sorry.  But I can’t let you do this anymore.”  Candice was sitting at the end of the bed talking to me.  I could tell she had been crying.  I lifted my head to look around at the situation, but when she said this to me, I dropped back to the pillow.  Candice is a tough bitch and she’s not gonna let me blow her off anymore.  “Now,” she said, “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

One of the things I love about New York is how everything is just shoved together and on top of each other.  Restaurants can be on the lower level of buildings and apartments can be on the top.  I always wanted to live on top of a restaurant.  Do you think those people ever cook?  When my Mom left us when I was eight-years-old, the last thing she ever said to me was, “Even if you eat at the best restaurant every single night, you’re still gonna get sick of the food.”  I always wondered if that was true.  I guess living on top of a good restaurant was the best way to find out. 

Unfortunately, Los Angeles is not like this.  Everything is spread out far apart and you have to drive through endless traffic to get anywhere.  I’ve never been to a psychiatrist before.  I’ve auditioned for that show In Treatment on HBO and it seems kinda cool.  I just hope my shrink isn’t as old as Gabrielle Burn.  Wasn’t he in The Exorcist?

I sat in a little waiting area for about 20 minutes before the door opened.  It was kinda spooky.  I heard the latch unlock and then the door drifted open.  It was awkward to poke my head in with the crutches, but once I did, I saw a guy in his 30s sitting in a nice chair in front of another nice chair.  The office was decorated in IKEA furniture and there were no large leather couches like you see in TV shows.  Just the two chairs.  You had to sit face to face with the shrink and boy, let me tell you, that wasn’t going to be a problem.

This doctor was gorgeous.  He had chestnut hair with great teeth and bright blue eyes.  He had a deep voice, big beautiful hands, and smelled expensive.  He didn’t seem hairy, but was still masculine even though he had an argyle sweater vest over a button up.  I kinda wished I wasn’t hobbling around on crutches, but I guess that made me look vulnerable.

“You must be Novella,” he said, “I’m Simon.”  With those few words, I felt like someone wrapped me in a down comforter after a warm shower.  I never wanted to leave.  I just wanted to talk with him forever.  So I did.

I told him about my Mom leaving and how my Dad killed himself and my sister a few years later.  I told him about how my foster Dad was a total pervert and all that other bull shit therapists want to talk about.  But most of all I told him about me.  How I loved acting and how it’s the only time I’m free from all that other stuff.  I told him about how I would love to make a lot of money someday just so I could give it all away to charity.  I didn’t need to live in a big, fancy mansion and go to clubs.  I just needed to be able to eat.

And that’s when he said it.  It was something that would change my life forever.  Simon looked at me, leaned over in his nice chair and asked, “Would you like to go to dinner tonight?”  I’m sure this was in violation of something, but remember, I was forced to do this therapy garbage, so I was all in.  You’re God damned right I do, you beautiful bastard!  “I would love to,” I said with a smile.

I spent the afternoon finding a nice dress to wear that covered my foot and accented my   eyes.  Sure, I didn’t have any money to spend, but that’s why God invented credit cards.  I met Simon at his place and from there we went out to a beautiful restaurant.  By the time the night was over, we were all over each other: Holding hands, giggling, hugging.  All I needed now was one little kiss.  He told me, “I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” and I said, “I don’t care.”  We kissed and I hobbled back to my car.  Besides my missing foot and my messed up hand, I felt perfect.

I got back to the apartment only to find Candice sitting in my living room like a worried parent.  “Where have you been?” she demanded.  I was so high from my date I didn’t even realize she was angry.  “I just got back from a date.  I cannot WAIT to tell you about this guy.  His name is . . . . ”  Candice lifted her hand and stopped me.  “Novi,” she said, “What are you doing to yourself?”  I was confused, “I just got back from a date.  We made out.”  She put her head in her hands and spoke through her fingers, “No . . . what did you do to your foot?”  Oh yeah.  That.  “I need to go to bed.”

I hobbled to my room.  Candice called after me but I slammed the door.  I wasn’t angry.   I just didn’t want to deal with it.  I was hungry.

Feet are really weird.  Have you ever thought about them?  I mean, if you weren’t familiar with the human anatomy and saw feet for the first time, you’d think they were a seriously deformed pair of human hands.  Even so, I think they’re really cool.  It amazes me those ten little toes basically keep your entire body balanced.  A few years ago, I went to a Lakers game and thought about the basketball players’ feet.  These guys are seven-feet-tall and 250 pounds but their little toes still allow them to run all over the court and jump up and down and dunk the ball.  It’s truly remarkable.  Sadly, my right foot was now destroyed. 

You know how it is, the tab kept peeling and moving to other toes and before you knew it, I was chewing on the bone of my pinky toe.  I always thought my feet were pretty cute but now my right foot was disgusting.  The main part of the foot still looked normal, but it now had five little bones wrapped in pink tendons sticking out of it.  The air against them really started to burn, so I used some leftover bandages from my finger to cover them up.  As I painfully pulled a wool sock over my toes to keep them warm, someone started knocking at my door.  It must be Candice! 

I couldn’t wait to see her and limped over to the entry way.  “Hey Candice!” I said while opening the door, but found Eesha standing there instead.  “Novi, how are you baby?”  Oh Jesus, are you serious?  I threw my foot behind the door to avoid another “cleaner” incident.  “Oh I’m fine Eesha,” I said, “Hey, thanks for taking me to the hospital.  I really appreciate it.”  Now why don’t you give me the $2,000 I owe the hospital, thanks to you.  “Oh baby, don’t worry about it,” she said, “And you know what?  Don’t worry about rent for next month either.  I know those hospital bills can be expensive.  You have enough to worry about.”  Holy shit!  Did she just read my mind?  “Thanks Eesha!” I said genuinely.  “You’re the best landlady ever.”  I gave her a big hug and then shut the door.  What a sweet old lady.  Man, I love Eesha.  

Someone started knocking on the door again.  

Jesus Christ, Eesha?  Leave me the fuck alone!

I opened the door and found Candice standing there.  “CANDICE!”  I gave her the biggest hug I could.  

We walked into my kitchen (she walked, I limped) and sat at my counter with some beers she brought over.  She looked me up and down and said just what I needed to hear, “God damn, you look good.”  A smile stretched across my face and I took a big swig of my drink.  “Thanks baby, you do too.  How are you?”  She shrugged, “Ehh, you know.  What’s all this shit about you trying to kill yourself.”  I shrugged back, “Eeh, the usual.  What do you want to do tonight?”  Without thought she fired back, “Get wasted.  This week sucked so bad at work.  Let’s go to Sunset.  That one DJ is there tonight.”  I pulled a mediocre lie out of my ass, “I can’t, someone ran over my foot yesterday, I can’t dance.”  Candice’s eyes widened, “That’s fucked up! Seriously?”  I nodded, proud of my creativity, “Yeah.  Super sucked.”

She took me out to dinner because she’s a sweet friend and we managed to get seriously drunk at this bar close to my house.  At one point Candice slurred, “Are you sure we should be drinking since you just tried to kill yourself?”  I laughed and responded, “Of course!  That’s why we should drink.”  There were a couple of dudes who drank with us.  Sometimes getting drunk with strange guys worries me, but Candice carries a gun.  So even if they tried something, that tough bitch would end it quick.  Besides, I had to go to my new shrink in the morning and didn’t feel like dealing with them when I woke up.  So Candice and I just came back to my place and crashed on my bed.

At about 3 a.m., I woke up with a horrible cramp in my stomach.  I went to my couch in the living room to avoid waking Candice.  The cramp was eating me alive.  I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or if one of the assholes we drank with tried to roofie me.  After rolling around on my couch, I realized I was starving.  At dinner I only had the bread the restaurant gives you for free and I guess it didn’t do the trick.  I dug through my cabinets only to be reminded that I still had no food.  Oh yeah.  Bummer.  Well, I had to eat something this time.

I sat on my couch and pulled the wool sock (now brown) off my foot.  I licked my lips and pulled it up to my face.  I’ve never really chewed on the side of my foot before, so it took a few times to get the positioning right.  But after a few tries, I was chomping away.  It hurt like hell, but I was hungry and wasn’t going to stop.  The gross part wasn’t the skin or foot odor, but the blood filling my mouth.  You know when you eat at Poppa Johns and every bite fills your mouth with a disturbing amount of tomato sauce?  Well it was like that, but tasted like rusted pennies.

The blood gushed out of my mouth and onto the couch as I tried to swallow as little fluid as possible.  I wanted the meat because if I didn’t get something soon, I was pretty sure my stomach would digest itself.  The calluses were the best.  They were like the calluses on my fingers except a lot thicker and more filling.  I gotta be honest, besides the tears streaming down my face from the pain, my foot was a pretty good meal.

“What the FUCK are you doing?”  Candice yelled from the hallway.

This scared the living shit out of me.  I jumped, kicked my foot out and it crashed into the coffee table.  This would hurt any day, but now that my foot was mostly exposed bone, it felt like someone just hacked it off with a hatchet.  I screamed and grabbed it instinctively.  This hurt just as much.  I was finally able to get it to stop hurting by sticking it out and lifting it in the air, kind of like when a dog pees on a fire hydrant.

Candice still stood in the hallway like she had just seen a ghost.  “Seriously.  What the hell are you doing?”  I tried to think of a lie but I had nothing.  “I was hungry,” I said, tears still streaming from my eyes.  Candice stared at me, her eyes the size of half dollars.  It was quite the sight: My leg stuck up in the air as blood oozed to the ground like a waterfall.  Finally, she just turned around and headed back to the bed, but I stopped her.

“Candice!”  I called.  She turned and looked at me.  “I have some crutches in my closet,” I said, “could you grab those for me?”

Most people think hospitals are cold and scary.  I think they’re pleasant.  There’s the constant ambient orchestra of beeps from heart monitors and PA systems.  Everything is clean and sterile like an Apple store.  But most of all, everyone is there to help you and protect you.  If your heart suddenly stops, an army of trained angels rush in and do everything they can to save your life.  That’s pretty amazing.  Unfortunately, it’s extremely expensive and I don’t have medical insurance.

I sat up from my bed and looked around me.  I knew I needed to go to the hospital but I sure as hell wasn’t planning on it.  Who brought me here?  How did I get here?  What the hell happened?  “You’re awake.”  It was like a ghost spoke from the corner of the room.  My eyes were blurry and I didn’t see the nurse standing there.  I tried wiping them but my hand was covered in a bandage the size of an oven mitt.  As my vision focused, I noticed the nurse was no more than 23-years-old.  She was small, fit and cute.  She had a stable job and probably paid her rent weeks before it was due.  Bitch. 

“How are you doing?” she asked.  Bitch!  How do you think I’m doing?  I just woke up in a God damn hospital!  “Groggy,” I said, cracking a little smile while trying to lay the groundwork of avoiding a hospital bill.  “It’s the medicine,” she said.  Medicine?!  I looked at my wrist.  Yup.  An I.V.  There’s another $600.  Wonderful.  “The doctor will be in soon.”  Perfect!  Now a doctor.  If you move to Canada or Mexico, can they hunt you down for medical bills?  Didn’t 50 Cent not pay his medical bills when he got shot nine times?

Soon after the nurse vanished, the doctor came in giving the patented two quick knocks before entering the room.  It was an older lady doctor in her 50s and she was wearing a pantsuit, not the white doctor/scientist jacket.  That’s odd.  “Ms. McClure?  How are you feeling?”   

Seriously?  

“Groggy,” I said, more of a smile this time.  This was the person I was really gonna have to sucker in order to get out of the bill.  “My name is Morgan Walker and I’m a psychiatrist here at the hospital.”  Uhhhh...what?  “I wanted to talk to you about your wrist,” she said.  Hmm…well, that was unexpected.  I didn’t know whether to freak out about the cost of a shrink or try to figure out why the hell I was now talking to a shrink. 

“Your friend Eesha brought you in.”  EESHA! That bitch!  She actually came back with the God damn cleaner she kept blabbing on about.  The pieces were coming together.  “She said you cut your wrist and tried to kill yourself.”  Never mind on the pieces coming together.  What was that?  “Kill myself?” I asked, except this time I was genuinely confused.  “Did you try and cut your wrist, Novella?”  I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t try to cut my wrist.  But according to the oven mitt on my hand and my dumb ass land lady, it sure looked like I did.  So I did what all great actresses do.  I burst into tears.

They put me on some sort of payment plan and mandated that I see a psychiatrist once a week.  I had to seriously figure out how I was going to pay for all this shit.  At this point, the porn studio that bitchface receptionist mentioned wasn’t sounding so bad.  When I got back to my apartment, the Eviction Notice had been taken down.  Alright, that’s one bullet dodged.  My floor no longer needed to be swept, it needed to be mopped.  It was covered in so much blood it looked like someone had been shot in the head and left for dead.  Man, I really went all-in for that sucker.

The hospital required my friend Candice come stay the night with me which was cool.  I needed to talk with someone.  But most of all, I needed something to eat.  That I.V. fluid only lasts so long.  My fridge was empty and so were my cupboards.  I couldn’t be more of a cliché if I tried.  I felt like shit and couldn’t drive to any restaurant with my hand all wrapped up.  But I needed something to eat.  I took off my shoes and kicked my feet up on the coffee table thinking about my next meal.  Can you eat paper?  I have a lot of scripts.  I started chewing on my other hand, but again, it just wasn’t as good as the bandaged one.  Plus, I needed to chill out on the chewing, especially since I was seeing a shrink the next day. 

My toe nails need to be painted.  I hate it when the nail polish starts peeling up.  When you’re trying to be a hot actress and your toes are all crusty, it’s not very attractive.  I started picking my toes.  I feel like I need a sand blaster to get all this shit off.  One thing I’ve always been proud of (and what most guys seem to really dig) is my flexibility.  I was never a ballerina, but I could do some wicked yoga if you ever dared me.  Without even trying, I popped my big toe into my mouth.  I know it’s disgusting, but then again, you should have seen how gross my toes looked.  I bit hard and blood started dripping into my lap.  Damnit.  I’m not going to do this again.  I kicked my foot out and put it back on the coffee table.  No more.

Shit.  What could I eat?  Maybe I could read a magazine.  Maybe I could eat that magazine.  Damnit!  Should I walk somewhere and get some food?  I just took off my shoes.  Maybe I could wear my sandals.  But my toes look like shit.  Look at them!  Now there’s a little tab on my toe from biting it.  Shit!  If I don’t take care of it, it’s going to spread and get worse when I walk somewhere.  

Alright, I just got to get rid of that tab.   

Somebody kept knocking at my door.  It was really annoying because cleaning my finger and wrapping it in bandages hurt a lot.  But after ten minutes of non-stop pounding, I finally went to see who it was.  When I opened the door, I saw my 70-year-old land lady, Eesha.  Eesha is the sweetest person in the world.  There are two people in Los Angeles who won’t screw you over and she’s one of them.  But Eesha had some bad news, “Novi, your rent is overdue again.”  

I just now remembered the Eviction Notice on my door.  I noticed it when I got home, but my gnarled finger took precedence.  “It’s only the 15th!”  I said.  She smiled nervously, “I know.  You still haven’t paid for last month, honey.”  I scratched my head as I usually do when I’m stressed and Eesha saw my bloody bandages.  “What happened?” she asked.  “I had an accident,” I lied.  She grabbed my hand like a mother and inspected it, “This is bad.  You need some cleaner for it.”  I pulled my hand away.  I didn’t care about my hand.  I wanted to know if she was going to kick me out that evening or if I had another couple weeks to get $500.  “Eesha, I just got back from an audition. I think I’m gonna get the part.  Can you just give me a few days and I’ll get you the money?”  Eesha clearly didn’t hear a word I said, “You stay here Novi, I have something that’s going to clean that up.”  She waddled back to her room.  She’ll probably forget what she is doing in a few minutes.  I shut the door.

I really need to sweep my floors.  There are dust bunnies and hair and little specks of white crap all over the place.  You don’t really notice those things until you sit on the floor and get a look at them.  I was sitting on my floor, thinking about my overdue rent, the part I wasn’t going to get, and my bloody finger.  I started chewing the fingers of my other hand.  I know it’s a bad habit but it really helps me think.  As I chewed and gnawed and sucked on my fingers, I realized I just wasn’t getting what I wanted out of that hand.  So I unwrapped the soiled bandages on my bloody finger to see how it was doing.  It needed to be cleaned but there was still a little skin tab that needed to be ripped off.  If I didn’t get it, it would tear itself off and become much worse. 

So I bit back into my finger and started pulling.  If I could just get this tab off, I would be finished with my finger.  Then I could clean it and move on to my rent problems.  But the little tab was tougher than I thought.  My teeth cut through it like the wax covering of Gouda cheese and every time I bit off a chunk, another little tab would form.  What I needed to do was pull that tab away so that it would rip off forcefully and leave no more tabs.  It’s like how the French believe you should never cut French bread, you should only tear it.  That’s why I named myself Novella, because the French are awesome.

Well, my finger wasn’t French bread and the tear didn’t work that easily.  I was able to get a hold of it with my teeth without biting through, but as I tore, it ripped through my skin like the “Pull Here” tabs on shipping envelopes.  As I pulled, my eyes widened at the sight of a centimeter wide cut slicing all the way down to my wrist.  It drew down the top of my hand and arched over my thumb and continued to my wrist, just below my palm.  Blood started gushing out like water over the edge of an infinity pool and a shoe string of skin hung from my wrist.  It was disgusting, but most all, frustrating.

My hand was basically ruined and I would definitely need to go to the hospital.  But this isn’t what frustrated me.  After all of this work, that tab was still there, on my wrist, connected to the shoestring of skin.  If I would go to the hospital, I wasn’t going to let them remove it and take the credit.  That little bastard was mine.  So I licked my lips and bit into my wrist like it was a burger.  I still hadn’t eaten that morning.

My name is Novella McClure.  Obviously, that’s not my real name.  A lot of people tell me it sounds like a porn star’s name but that’s not true either.  A porn star’s name is the combination of the street you grew up on and your first pet’s name.  Only a weirdo would name their pet Novella and I’ve never seen a McClure St.  Besides, I wasn’t going for that sort of thing.  I wanted a marquee name.  One that rolled off George Clooney’s tongue as he announced the Best Actress winner at the Academy Awards.  It sounds French and Irish and mysterious.  That’s what I wanted.  So I changed it the day I turned 22.  The same day I put all my shit into a bag and came out here to Hollywood.  Unfortunately, that was 10 years ago.

Thirty two-years-old is young.  There isn’t a billionaire over the age of 60 who wouldn’t give up all her money to be my age.  But a 32-year-old female looks like the Crypt Keeper at a casting call.  If I were funny, I could make it at 50-years-old.  Just look at Jane Lynch.  She’s funny as hell and she has more work than Megan Fox.  But I’m neither.  So here I am, again.  At another casting call waiting for the dreaded, “Thanks for coming in.”  Again.

I’m so hungry.  My stomach is growling.  I hope the casting agent doesn’t hear my stomach growl.  There’s nothing more embarrassing than your stomach saying the lines louder than you.  And my nails look like shit.  I get these hangnails that look like they’re two inches long.  Your teeth can only do so much, but I don’t have any clippers with me.  Besides, I’m starving and maybe I can convince my stomach I’m feeding it.  I probably shouldn’t chew my fingers here.  The casting agent will probably mistake my ghetto manicuring for anxiety.  Anxiety equals inexperience.  Maybe inexperience is a good thing.  Maybe then they’ll believe the “23-years-old” I put on my headshot.

“Thanks Novella.  We’ll let you know.”  I desperately try to give the casting director a flirty smile before I leave.  Don’t let the door hit you in ass!  I wish they’d just say that instead.  I’d respect them more.  I ask the receptionist if I can call them next week to follow up.  She tells me, “We’ll let you know.”  Why does everyone keep saying that?  Just say, “No!”  Then out of nowhere she asks, “How much do you weigh?”  What?  What the hell is this?  I weigh half as much as you, bitch.  “105 Pounds,” I tell her.  It’s the same number on my headshot.  And you know what?  I’m NOT lying about that one, bitch.  “Hmm...”  She says, “I work for a company that’s always looking for models.  Do you do that sort of thing?”  Whenever someone in LA says “a company” but doesn’t name the company, it’s generally a porn company.  She probably thinks Novella is a porn name because she’s a dumb ass with no taste.  But nonetheless, I say, “Yeah, totally!” smiling and nodding and being a perky 23-year-old.  “Ok cool,” she says, “I’ll give them your head shot.  They’ll let you know.”  

As I sat in my car thinking about whether or not that dumb bitch was suggesting I was overweight, I couldn’t stop staring wide-eyed at nothing while chewing on my fingers.  Like I said, my hangnails are awful.  But what really sucks is when you chew on them they only get worse.  People tell you to just stop biting them but I had this one zinger that would keep peeling if I let it live.  I don’t carry band-aids in my car because I’m not a soccer mom so I kept chewing, pulling, sucking, and thinking about that fat bitch inside asking my specific weight.  God damnit, I’m starving.  But the last thing I want to do is go get a burger after that dumb bitch asked my --

Ow!  I looked at my finger.  It was bleeding.  Not a push-pin-to-the-finger type bleeding, but dripping-on-my-car-seat type bleeding.  I put the finger back in my mouth to suck the blood and protect my only hot audition shirt.  I was starting to get that bad severed nerve pain in my finger.  The kind you get when you cut yourself with the lid of a tin can and you question whether you should just use a band-aid or go to the hospital.  I looked at the finger and saw the open wound.  The bleeding died down, but that zinger was still there.  God damnit.  So I dug back in.  This time I bit harder and my eyes got wider.  By the time I turned on my car, I was picking hair out of my teeth from my knuckles.  Maybe it was time for that band-aid.