So, according to stagnated gender-related research over wine and shit, it was found that most women eat when they’re grief-stricken, depressed, sad or angry.
When I’m any of those things I simply stop eating.
Open the fridge, look at the cheese for about five minutes, maybe pick up a piece of leftover chicken, put it back, then close the fridge. This ritual takes place almost obsessive compulsively, when I’m at home alone feeling desperately sorry for myself.
You can’t make me eat when I’m down.
Force feed me with a tube already.
Until last month Tuesday, I involuntarily could not finish a meal. I really fucking wanted to, but settled instead on a most flaccidly unsavoury diet consistent of cigarettes, coffee and biltong.
Maybe, sometimes, for fear of contracting scurvy - hey hot stuff- the odd orange.
I figured protein was the most important in maintaining my guns and such, so over the last four months have been gnawing attractively on biltong snapsticks of bulk-sized proportions. But that's about it.
Then something strange happened.
I, like, got happy.
I just sort of slid into a bubble of my own self-absorbed content, fobbing off any post break-up images I was so sick of remembering and analysing.
I sort of just let go.
But that’s not the only thing that's let go.
Now that I am officially happy and sane, I have started smashing my face again, and am afraid I’m going to look like the Michelin Man if I carry on this way.
Fat and happy isn’t gonna get me laid.
Let’s take an itinerary of what has been consumed over the last three days:
2 x tubs of Gino Ginelli Choc Nut Italiano. Straight out the tub. For dinner.
3 x packets of biltong snapsticks. For breakfast.
1 x Caesar salad
4 x Woolies sandwiches
1 x box Hazel Nutties
1 x Westcliff breakfast (eggs, salmon, mushroom conglomerate)
1 x fruit salad
Right. What am I compensating for, one wonders?
Happiness? No, got that.
Starvation? No, not emaciated.
Carbo-loading for theRace of Hell? Um, no.
Best I stop stuffing my face if I plan to get any.