Three slices of Sara Lee 45 Calories and Delightful
multi-grain bread all spread thick with peanut butter and honey, store-bought
chicken salad with dried cranberries and pecans, spicy pickles, half a plastic
tray of black berries that I bought on a whim the other day, a pint of beer, a
glass of orange juice, and all of this after a hefty plate of Mongolian stir
fry. The diet bread is blatantly ironic in the face of such gluttony, and
though it vaguely justifies my terrific binge, (at least in the logic-depraved
depths of my food-addicted thoughts), those 45 calories do nothing for my hellish,
early morning stomach ache.
I woke up full. Not satisfied, “yeah, I could go for some
desert” full, but uncomfortable, “God, I feel worse than the time I ate those
street vendor tacos in Ciudad Juárez” full. Why the squeamish, makeshift banquet
parading as a midnight snack? Because I couldn’t resist. The fridge is a siren,
its contents an irresistible song, and my sensible friends weren't around to
tie me to the couch. I wage a war against food and of course, I fight for the
rebels, the resistance!
