I try to keep a generally healthy lifestyle. I don’t overindulge in fast food or ice cream or cakes. Sure, I’ve been known to have my Sour Patch Kid fixes, gone for days from my job and apartment only to be discovered in frazzled haze, dusted with sour sugar flakes behind the Walgreen’s on Washington Street… but that’s another story for another day.
The point of all this is to say that, while I do like to make certain efforts to keep healthy, I can’t pretend that I don’t indulge in eating some stuff that can’t be classified as anything other than garbage. Sure, it’s not actual trash but it might as well be. You know, going in, that it’s not a great idea, but you can’t resist.
And that, in fact, is the funniest part. Only the actual eating of said horseshit makes you feel good. No one feels good on line at Popeye’s, or when they’re throwing away that little paper box, grease having made it’s mark on the sides. It’s only while consumption is occurring, not for a minute more or less. That ought to say something, no?
But, shit… those moments when you are ripping apart a tender, wolfing down a mini-burger, slurping down a soda… not much better than those.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The exact moment you finish, and you know you’re probably going to need cous cous or some salad-type shit for the next three meals just to put yourself back in balance.
scott spinelli 