Sometimes I pretend my mouth is a tight wet pussy and a Big Mac or a scoop of Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch is a big hard throbbing cock that I’m just jamming in there like I’m my own face rapist. Except I like it. What I mean is, it’s disgusting and patently not OK what I’m doing, but it totally makes me come. God, Nature, etc. are like, “Noooo!” and I’m like, “Yeeesssss! Get in here! Get in my greedy mouth-pussy and just jizz gallons of tasty horror down into my guts till I explode under a highway on-ramp like a dead and bloated kidnapped college volleyball player who used to be sexy but then got hooked on junk and would do anything—ANYTHING—to get it, including the types of things that can get you murdered and dumped under a highway on-ramp."
This is how I feel about food. I want it in me. Shitty, awful food too, mind you. I’m not talking about broccoli here, unless it’s roasted and covered in olive oil, salt, and Parmesan cheese. I’m talking about American drive-thru garbage—the shit they make movies about. Movies about how awful it is for you, the Earth, and the future of humankind. The shit they keep in the checkout aisle. Food that gives you hangovers the way bourbon and cocaine do. Maybe I feel the way I do about food because I’m an alcoholic who’s been sober for years, yet I still have an addict’s mental wiring and I like to “fix” with food. Or maybe if you live long enough and grow weary of the things that can kill you quickly, you replace them with the things that kill you slowly, like donuts or car sundaes. A car sundae is just a sundae you (I) eat in your (my) car. I don’t do this more than thrice a week. Fuck you. Don’t judge me. You don’t know what I deal with on a day-to-day basis! You’re not my mom! Or my wife. In fact, since you’re not my wife, would you like to have an affair? It won’t be a sex affair, rather it will be an affair where we meet in secret and just eat horrible, disgusting, magical, light brown and/or heavily processed white food together and wash it down with full-strength Coca-Cola. If you can somehow get me a bowl or perhaps pail of pure high-fructose corn syrup, I will drink it. We can do it in an old shed in the woods somewhere on the edge of town. The kind of eating I like to do really only should be done in parking lots or alleys on the periphery of places where good people live. It should be a shameful act.
I keep a jar of peanut butter in my glove compartment.
I would rather my wife see my computer’s browser history than the amount of McDonald’s visits on my credit card statement.
I had to pull over and throw up the other day because I ate too much cheese and cookies at a meeting where they had free cheese and cookies JUST SITTING THERE, OUT IN THE OPEN, UNGUARDED, WHILE WE WERE TRYING TO DO BUSINESS. I ate so very many of each. One woman at the meeting looked at me with a level of disgust I reserve for people who hit their kids at the mall.
If I build up enough food-pressure inside my tummy it feels like someone is hugging me, from the inside. Like I’m hugging me. It’s a lousy facsimile of what it might it feel like if I was happy with myself. It’s disgusting. And I do it all the time. I am typing this with a breadstick.
Previously - My Life with Jews