The Urge

I've never been as impressed by the taste or afterglow of eating a German Chocolate cake as the urge to actually have it implies.

In other words, I have spent so much time staring at sweet food, just dreaming of putting it in my mouth, twirling it around my tongue until the saliva and the grips of my teeth tear the cake matter apart, slushing the frosting between my gums, making my gums numb, like when you sit on your feet for too long and then try to walk,that when I finally eat it I don't even remember the taste.  It's a kill for me, you see.  The Red Velvet Cake is just prey to a food addict.  It's the shiny bouncing object in the field, the bottle that says "Drink me!" in Wonderland, and I am a wolf with no willpower, I don't even have to know what that word willpower means is because I rely on instinct.  Instinct tells me that sweet food belongs inside me. 

And after I eat it, I get nervous.  Did I eat all of it?  Is there anything left so that a passer-by doesn't know the truth, that this confection is all I care about?  That eating it and finishing it makes me feel like a strike force pilot who just took out the enemy, do they see that?  Does this empty plate give away my secret to the waiter, that 10 years ago I was double my size and smelled like Gold Bond Medicated powder, and that I farted every time i took a step forward?

But then I get mad.  I know better.  I shouldn't have eaten that, because I want more.  Because fucking that ice cream with my tongue didn't make me feel better.  It made me worse.  It made me guilty and afraid that I'm running out of time.  I'll be 35 someday and then 40, and that brownie makes me fatter.  Too young to be fat.  I should be out regaling people with my thin-ness, not sitting alone at Le Pain Quotidien eating an Apple Pie that a stranger--not my grandmother made. 

And I go for a run, and I skip dinner.  And the next day I feel ignored, by myself and by people on the street, and I've been good.  I starved myself for 12 hours.  SO I eat a Peanut butter for breakfast.  Half a can.  It's natural, at least.  And a slice of cheese--Pepperjack, with a side of chicken, and coffee.  I've spun my wheels, and I'm hopeless, all because of that fucking cheesecake that I had to have, that frozen yogurt that I don't remember at all, but cannot forget no matter how hard I try.

Then lunch comes, and I didn't have a real breakfast, so I have to treat myself for lunch and have something normal, sustainable.  A sandwich, and chips.  And it's raining.  And times are hard.  I'll have just one cookie.