Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Skipped breakfast--couldn't deal with it. Clothes loose today; pants hiked up above my navel so they don't come down. Need a new hole in my belt; shirt looser. Of course I'll get my period in a week and I'll be right back where I was.

To the deli for lunch. Woman behind the counter: "anything else? Also a black and white cookie? No? Ah." I wanted to take a swing while also saying "yes, and a pack of Parliaments." There was a rule in the past, one of the mysterious rules that emerge when you are in thrall to something and must protect the enthrallment: the minute they knew my habits ("no ice cream sandwich today?") I had to find a new store, at least for a while. Something about being known, being caught, predictable, was insufferable. So many stores were crossed off the list when the proprietor smiled and put forth some bland interrogative. I always went back in time, of course.

The scale has arrived at work. The quantifier. It is as heavy as--well, it's heavy, but it has hard work ahead of it. It's a special model, suitable for the grander organism. And a big un in the box. Installed it will always be there in the apartment, like the computer, the books, and the cats. Inside that box is a world of shame turned into a single floating-point number, accurate to the quarter-pound hamburger.