The Curse of being a Halfway diner
In a starling twist of gastronomic proportions to the saga of my life, I've turned into what I've always abhorred, A halfway diner. I guess the best definition of this ailment is an inability to eat without cribbing about how what you're eating is horrible for every part of your body, from the skin to the gills, but eating the whole damn thing anyway and going back for seconds. I confess, I confess. It is the end. I would kill myself but after I get through this fourth helping of butter chicken, I think I'll just sit and wait for my arteries to clog up and slowly choke me. What? There's Kulfi? Do you have any idea how much full cream there is in that stuff? And God, the way those guys make it…. Hey, where do you think you're going with that? I never said I didn’t want it.
You get the whole lamentable idea, I trust. I, the bottomless pit, I the meal monster, I the terror of all-you-can-eat buffets, now am relegated to muttering obscene threats to my wholly insouciant stomach, which thumbs an imaginary nose up at me and bids my hand pour the samosa-pav down the hatch and never mind the chewing, Jack. Oh, for a day when I could either eat with abandon, or else not eat and perhaps make some use of my exorbitant gym membership. Which is good? Which is best? Which path must my life follow? Shall I follow the path of renunciation, which will lead to health, wisdom, an undeterred view of my toes, and a wholly understandable desire to bite any person making their way through a Subway footer? Or the path of utter self indulgence, which will make my friends so happy, which will make me so obese. I will smile at the poor anorexic fools who waste their time in their gyms when I can be happy in my bed waiting for my poor overworked heart to give up the ghost and take that final bite. I'm sorry for the melodrama, but kulfi does that to me.
Alcohol too. Beer, man? Just a little, this stuff really packs in the calories man… uhhh, a little more, little more, almost there, yeah that’s it, five millimeters from the top of the glass. You know you just killed five days of my gym here, don’t you buddy? The guy walks away smiling and my buddies shake their heads and tell me that I get fat more because I agonize over what I'm eating. Still, I have the best built body among us, thanks to guilt induced gymming.
I say all this because I need help. I don’t want to be like this anymore. Somebody help! I cant live like this forever. I am doomed to rue the spirits of mealtimes past, and, more the pity, of mealtimes present. Mealtimes future just read back my last words. It seems, before I bite the dust, I say "This really cant be good for me.. "
Well, Duh!
