A Love Story

Eating, fantasies about eating, and the aftermath of eating occupies almost my entire social life. If I were an anorexic, I would have no friends, and my family would shoot me like Old Yeller because of what use am I if I can't eat with people? I have been told, much to my delight, that I dance on a fine line between food and garbage. I am proud of this because it is a trait that I shared with the greatest love of my life. I call her the greatest love of my life while she calls me a sick, obsessed fan who needs to get a life. Lovers' quarrels, that is why we were meant for each other.

My sweet lady friend, who I have adoringly deemed dead since leaving me on this godforsaken continent, became my friend many years ago over a plate of quesadillas. I watched enthralled as she snatched a plate of old quesadillas from a strange woman at a Tex-Mex restaurant and proceeded to gleefully devour her prize like a glorious baboon. She then declared that she avoided paying for food whenever possible and that free food was her favorite food. Then she got up and bought a milkshake. I was dazzled by this elegant lady. From that moment on, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

My elegant, baboon, lady friend and I became incredibly close over the years, and one of the reasons for our powerful bond was our common attitude towards food. We loved food and did not discern between garbage and food. One time on an evening stroll, I spied a paper plate of ambiguous leftovers on the sidewalk. Being the attentive companion that I am, I kindly alerted her by shouting, "Hey man, free food! Free food's yo favorite food!" She responded by punching me in the head, which meant "I love you."

Those were the glory days of our relationship. I remember like it was just yesterday we couldn't decide on what to eat for dinner so we each ate a pint of ice cream. She had the Blue Bell Anniversary Sundae because she was such a refined and classy lady. I watched as she passed out on the floor in a sugar-induced coma. Her collapsed body in the prone position, like some kind of enormous penguin in mid-slide. "Beauty, isn't she?" I thought. Soon I too fell asleep, dreaming of a land of ice cream and riding my penguin lady friend down a sundae mountain. Later I was awoken by her roommate who had come home late and probably wanted me to get out of her bed. Remembering my manners, I asked, "Hey, you wanna get some wings for dinner?" She replied, "It's three A.M." Alas, I was in love and had lost all concept of time and space.

One of the most adorable things about my friend was her insistence on keeping food long past their expiration date. It was one of the things that made her special. On one of our romantic weekend roadtrips, she gave me an egg custard tart which I eagerly accepted. My teeth mashed into a soggy crust, and a dairy-tinged smell clouded my nose. The tart had begun the early stages of decomposition, but my ambitious lady friend refused to give up on it. Giving up was not in her nature. Alas, it was her determination and fearlessness in the face of bacteria that attracted me to her. I spat the wad of molded pastry out in a napkin, wrapped it up and stuck it in a crevice of her car. I knew she'd know what it meant when she found it.

"I love you."

The years flew by as our love aged like the molded cheese she told me was safe to eat. It's been almost a year since she died. I've since moved on with my life, knowing that she is in a better place... one that has better Korean food because that bitch is in Korea. I think of her often and wonder if she thinks of me. The taste of cheap bread brings tears to my eyes and reminds me of the romantic evenings where we tried to see how many sandwiches we could eat. The sight of garbage on the floor evokes nostalgia and a hint of fear of my head being punched. I miss her. I will always remember her laugh, her smile, her scent. The scent of staleness.

Goodbye, my love

You Can Break Bread, But Can You Break A Hundred?

As I sit here munching on a fistful of cold turkey, I look back on my actions tonight and think, "My God, what have I done?" The day began last night with the preparations for our massive feast. This particular feast was different from any other of its kind before, in that this year we paid tribute to our gods of food and wine. No, not that fat bastard Dionysus. I'm talking about our Lord Alton Christ, Lady Giadalupe de Laurentiis, and Paulallah Deen. As with every year, we attempted a classy, Norman Rockwell style Thanksgiving, so we turned to our gods of Food Network. With the help of Mr. Brown, we prepared a beautiful turkey that did not have its legs wide open on the table spilling out vegetables and herbs like some Dollar General hooker. Yes, I have no doubt that vegetables and herbs would come tumbling out of a Dollar General hooker. The green bean casserole blessed by Paula was the biggest hit; there's barely any left. Giada's gravy... what can I say about Giada's gravy? It was a tasty addition to the meal, and I highly recommend it to anyone wanting to try a new gravy. One bit of advice: don't go overboard with the herbs. If you are a herb zealot or you have palsy and you're using the jar like a Shake Weight, then you are going to end up with zombie gravy.

 A beautiful plate full of picture perfect foods marred by a viscous, green-tinged fluid flowing over everything. An attempt at a classy holiday foiled again. That tasty little devil... well at least I didn't go full-on classy; I wore my gay hoodie (no really, I bought it from the FCKH8 campaign), roll-up sweat pants and knee-high sailor socks. It's really the only way to eat to maximum capacity short of eating in the nude. I'm very classy in that I wore clothes at all. People should appreciate that I have the good graces to put pants on before stepping out the door.

I've got Thanksgiving working like a well-oiled machine. I always eat sparingly throughout the day so that I have an appetite for the main feast. Once the big meal happens, I go nuts. I am in my own world as I eat, and this world has mashed potato clouds and turkey beds. The showers dispense gravy onto my gloriously distended, naked body. Aw yeah, we've all been to that world, and if you haven't, then you need to eat something else, none of that holistic vegan shit. After I finish eating I always feel awful. I've stuffed myself silly, and now I feel remorseful of my actions. "Did I really need that second helping? Why am I eating a third helping? What even is this???" By the end of the meal, I am usually so engorged with food that even my mind becomes compromised. I find myself thinking about how to execute the simplest gestures, like taking the spoon out of my mouth before going to sleep.

The next best part about Thanksgiving is Black Friday: the day we revert to our instincts as hunters and gatherers. Black Friday works perfectly with Thanksgiving in that after I've become bloated and slightly remorseful from my overindulgence, I can then burn off the excess calories by shopping. I've satiated myself at a physiological level, and now I want to satisfy myself on a material level. This year was the first year I went out alone, without my comrades in arms Jenna and Suzanne. This was also the first year that many stores opened at midnight rather than 4 or 5 in the morning. Battling Black Friday alone without sleep is one of the strangest, most discombobulating experiences of my life. It has left me feeling physically and mentally exhausted. My body is sore from constantly snatching, dodging, lifting, carrying and beelining around stores. I have been without sleep for so long that at one point on an escalator at Macy's, I had the semi-lucid thought, "I just might fall backwards down the escalator with this box of Pyrex containers." I seemed to have overexerted my brain by mentally computing too many discounts on prices, thus leading to my dizziness and growing paranoia. At one point I was looking for a pen in my purse, and a salesperson asked me if I needed any help. Immediately I thought, "She thinks I'm shoplifting!" so I began jingling my keys in my purse like it's one of those pneumatic drills. I'm jingling away as if to say, "See, I'm just a normal person looking for her keys! Perfectly normal!" As the salesperson walked away I felt triumphant in my poise under pressure. Then I felt slightly foolish. Towards the end of the night I started becoming delirious in the rush, thinking, "Yes, everybody needs a cheeseboard! This cropped military jacket makes me look stunning! I do need both seasons of White Collar!" When I regained a small sense of reason, it turned out that I was just getting hungry, my body was getting hot and cold flashes from the lack of sleep, and I didn't really want to buy two seasons of White Collar; I just wanted to buy Matt Bomer.  Fighting a constant state of delirium and unsteadiness, I somehow made it through Target, Best Buy, Wal-Mart, Macys, and a mall. I got the car home in one piece, amazing even myself. Now I sit here in my room, delighted at the prospect of going to sleep and eventually waking up to enjoy the four seasons of Psych I've just purchased. Of course, there is always Cyber Monday to look forward to.