Nightmare Daughter - Vital Signs (Jane Martin)

This isn't fat, mother, this is bloom.  The bloom on the rose.  This is the radiance you read about in your two hundred romance novels a week.  Don't look down on the carpet.  I'm not on the carpet mother.  I'm here in the kitchen next to the refrigerator.  You caught me, sheriff!  Two in the morning but you sniffed me out!  I'm the Sarah-Lee bandido.  The Che Guevara of Haagen-Daaz ice cream.  By day my name is Nutra-Slim but come sunset, I rip the calorie counter from my heart, I trample grapefruit and carrot sticks and celery beneath my Nike Air Cross-Trainers and I expand.  I fill with cholesterol like a deranged zeppelin   I inhale cheesecake.  I eat graham crackers box and all.  Bits of packaged ham and pepperoni flake my disordered hair.  My fangs drip butter almond swirl.  And with my eyes rolled back in my head I crash through the wall into your pristine, chintz, unendurably perfect bedroom and fling myself on you screaming "this is me mother! This is your nightmare daughter you patronizing, priggish, punishing, unforgiving cancer of my life!"