Loss and gain, again

My body is mysterious and erratic.  Every once in awhile, I go through periods where I suddenly lose my appetite.  The sense of hunger remains, but it's about as fruitful as a trapped rodent trying to claw frantically out of a trash can.  If it gets too restless, I shove some colorless, packaged, frozen thing down my gullet to calm the pesky ruckus, but I remain disdainfully distant from its cause.  After a week or so, my pants all hang sadly off the twin peaks of jutting hip-bones.  After a month, the flesh slowly creeps from my shoulders and leaves a deserted playground of nooks and shadows.  Of course, these wasting spells are inevitably followed by some equally sudden internal flip of the switch, wherein, like last night, I find myself getting ice cream and chicken wings for dinner, then standing in the kitchen at ten o'clock at night, smearing herbed goat cheese and ginger-fig jam over the fourth, fifth, and sixth slice of fresh farmer's market bread.  

It's too bad that there's an entire teenage subculture devoted to the former syndrome, while the latter has never found so broad and fetishized a following.  I'm sure there have been times where my xylophone ribs and naked elbow joints have elicited envious fascination from the Hot Topic-wearing set, but I'd much prefer to be somebody's gluttonspiration.