For the record, Forrest is a talented individual; he’s adept at many forms of illustration, a capable web designer, and still enjoys a good afternoon of manual labor when presented the opportunity. But if your heart’s desire is naught but some peace and quiet, for the love of Mike, take your money elsewhere.
I think it’s time I acknowledge I have a problem.
The other night Danielle conjured up a delicious meal involving soy sauce, honey, dice vegetables, rice, and he tenderest chicken it has ever been my pleasure to devour. As if this act was not saintly enough, she also prepared enough that I’d have some to take to work the next day for midday meal. Thus did I spend evening and morning next eagerly anticipating this lunch.
At work, we had a training seminar going, and as those involved also just so happened required material sustenance, there was a tray of cold take-out sandwiches in the kitchen as I went to re-prepare my feast with concentrated bursts of radiation. By now, however, the tenderest chicken had been forgotten as the whole of my thoughts bent around my acquisition of one of these sandwiches.
Had the members of seminar already eaten by now? There was evidence to indicate they had and this food was now derelict and ready for salvage. Was it socially acceptable to partake given that I was not indeed a member of the party the were acquired for? It took me a good couple of minutes for the question of what about the lunch I brought to struggle it’s way back to the surface amidst the flood. Would it keep another day in the cold storage unit?
What the hell was I on about? Devoting such expansive processing power to the replacement of my echoes of dinner past for these deli sammiches was nothing short of madness. Upon reflection, I realized that my long struggle with this quandary was indicative of a some horrible psychosis I possessed, and I have categorized it since.
I am a free food addict.
It began during my university days. Of all the subjects they purport to teach, from mathematics to religion to hospitality, the strict regimen of poverty they enforce on their students trains them very quickly to never say no to a free meal. I contend regularly that it is one of the only useful lessons I was taught. This training, however, has been engraved upon my soul to the extent that now that I am long free from the walls of academia I still would take stale bread that someone else paid for over my wife’s thoughtful cooking.
In the end, I was able to master my urges and enjoy my tender chicken with only the slightest nagging feeling that I’d missed out on sandwiches. But yeah, maybe I need to find a group or something.
Ja.