As I write this I’m currently downing an Oreo McFlurry.  I don’t feel guilty rather I wonder about my underlying current of self-destructiveness.

I am smackdown tired of being told what I can and cannot eat.  Yes I make poor choices.  Piss poor choices even, but isn’t this what free will is all about?

When I was a little gurl I recall the Swann’s man deliveries.  Does anyone remember the Swann’s man and fond memories of his frozen delights?  Well perhaps my palette has changed with time, but at 12 I was sure there was no finer cuisine than their single serve deep dish pizzas or chicken cordon bleu.  And lest we forget, being “single size” and all, I always felt the need to consume two of everything to feel properly satiated. 

My Grandparents were living with us at the time.  I was walking back from the freezer after grabbing two single serve ice cream cups with lil fudgey ripples.  As I walked past my Grandparents asked if I was going to eat both of those and I replied, “Well sure I am.”  My Grandpa came up behind me with tears in his eyes and took one of the cups away from me.  I stared at my Grandfather crying and thought sure I must be the worst person in the world because I was going to eat two ice creams.

Later, when I became a lil older and wiser, I realized I was not an evil and deplorable human being because I liked to eat.  But I did wonder, “What age must I reach when people stop telling me what I can and cannot eat?  Surely once I hit 18 people will stop asking me, “Are you really going to eat that?”

As you can imagine I hit the ripe age of 18 with crushing disappointment, then 21, 25, etc.  It never stops.

Since this surgery I’ve felt like that awkward lil gurl who is constantly scolded about her eating habits, and made to believe she’s one helluva horrid human being.

After sheer annoyance with the world in general, I felt the need for a Fosters run.  No, they don’t have anything remotely low carb -- I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a sundae.  I was able to eat 1/3 of the cheeseburger and devoured that sundae.  It was wonderful.

This afternoon I broke.  After searching the kitchen for something to eat and only finding limp lunch meat and bland chicken strips, I snapped.  Why can’t I eat real fucking food like I used to?  Christ!  I bet I’ve forgotten how to cook! 

Screw the goddamn annoying rules!  I want ravioli!

I waddled out to the freezer and proceed to peruse through the items.  I did everything but climb inside, and came out with ravioli, tortellini, etc.  Found some sausage that would soon be departing from us and chucked it into the sauce.  So thrilled was I over the anticipation of eating actual real live ravioli, that I thrust my hands into the volcanic pasta pot just to nab one. I bit into the buttery shitake mushroom ravioli and my God was it ever worth the searing pain.

I didn’t even bother to wait for the pasta to finish before I dragged it off the burner and helped myself to its bounty.  I piled my lil pasta bowl to the brim and dug in.  Infact I’m not even sure if I bothered to breathe in between bites or if in between bites even existed.

Later I tootled up to McDonald’s for an Oreo McFlurry.

I wonder if I’m going to be one of those failures of surgery.  Although I haven’t gained any weight, and am still losing somehow.

However, instead of finishing that McFlurry off, I set it aside.  That’s one small step for Brookekind.