The irony is that I am just now munching on some delicious wafer rolls with hazelnut and cocoa cream. They were next to my bed and seemed like a good snack but I have probably ruined my appetite now, and tomorrow I will constitute, just fractionally, a few atoms from decomposed chocolate instead of a cucumber. This revelation, when you extrapolate, is quite devastating.
I am not a bringal pizza with extra garlic and parmesan. I am not a packet of biscotti or a toasted cheese with potato wedges on the side. I want to be organic carrot juice and a salad with sunflower seeds. But there is no way of getting to be made up of good stuff if all that comes your way is grease and dirty quickness fresh from the deep-fryer. I am now a skinny kid who’s over 25, and so my food choices suddenly make a difference to my body.
Hence today’s grocery shopping.
I should start prefacing my pleas for takeaways to my husband with “Let’s become…” e.g. “Let’s become a big, fat, greasy motherfuckin’ pizza tonight.”
From the 16 Meditations for Deranged Workaholics series.