Eat Fast, Die Young

I’m stuck with this guilt that no matter what I say, do, eat or drink, it’s never quite conforming to what is right and that for the majority of the time, is usually quite wrong. That for as long as I remember, from Saturday mornings with a bacon sandwich, to the end of cold Sundays with a roast lamb, that was the way forward and part of my culture and my childhood. However, with the obsession with the right way of doing things nowadays, it has now got to the stage whereby I cannot enjoy a simple meal without someone, somewhere judging.

I’ve had many wooden sticks jammed between my canines and told to chew; ‘it’s good for you’. And that no matter how much I bite and cough, the struggle is very real to eat like an insect and still enjoy what a chubbier human has brought immense joy in. It all reminds me too much of watching a dog lie on the grass on an August evening, gorging itself on grass before being desperately sick as its body refuses to digest something it quite clearly isn’t meant to. Now of course, the 21st century perfectionist would highlight this is all overdramatic and that I ought to ‘do some research’. The issue is that my guilt for not doing what is meant to be right is not quite strong enough to overcome not doing what is, to some, wrong.

But hey, what do I know?

Maybe there is a method and an absolute truth to the fact we all ought to be animal free. Maybe.

However, for the time being, I will continue to feast on what is most likely to kill me before I reach 40. All the while, I will stare back at the eyes glaring at me, laughing as they bite down on the wood to hide the pain that they aren’t truly happy. Maybe some are. Certainly not all.

East fast, die young.