Saturday, September 15, 2007

individually packaged purse treats ...

yesterday i made an entire lunch from things i found in my purse. i had, a week ago, the foresight to know that just because i could not inflate my gut enough for the individually packed rye crips from a bread basket at pickwick did not mean i'd never be able to.

i ripped through three packages of two-by-four inch crackers, deciding that they only taste like the body of christ if you forget to put them flavor-side-down on your tongue. for the most part, this was like licking cremains of a box of wheat thins, so broken were the crackers. it was less like eating, more like standing with my mouth open in a sand shower.

whatever. it was lunch.

it seems, through some sort of evolution, i have become a food horder. similar to your college roommate. the one who locked her door so she could dive face-first, uninterupted, into a mound of twinkies, bite sized snickers bars, moon pies and cheetos and other processed nonsense she'd packed in her underwear drawer, only to act nonchalant when you bust down her door and find her shoving spoonfuls of skippy peanut butter down her throat, then scampering into the bathroom and wretching.

except i don't actually binge. and i certainly don't purge. at least not anything that isn't at least 60 proof.

but i do stow packaged food in my purse, and i do it subconsciously. i think it is a direct result of the fact that i usually forget to eat until i do a pre-faint teeter and realize that if i don't stuff something into my face immediately, my stomach is literally going to eat itself. lest i am in the mood for a stick of mint-flavored chapstick, i better have something on hand. like the rye crips i'd liberated from the bread basket.

typically, i'm opposed to solid foods until 4 p.m. i chug coffee for approximately four hours as a form of pre-eating calisthenics. then i tend to veer from the food district, often getting stranded far from edibles. and frankly, as long as i'm being honest, my refrigerator tends to be filled with a meager amount of already-perished perishables.

"how old is this clif bar?" chuck asked the other day as i split a peanut butter flavored purse treat in half at a stoplight. my stomach drooling for a taste of its own lining.
"who cares?" i said, my mouth already full.
the package was dingy and crumpled, the clif bar flat from being whapped about in the child-sized backpack i carry.

my unemployed friend likes to tell the story of the time we were walking down the street and i pulled a wad of napkin out of the pocket of my northface vest and offered it to him. i'd squirrelled it away at a banquet we had attended earlier.

"want a half of sandwich?" i'd asked.
"did you just pull that out of your pocket?" he'd asked.
"so?" i said.
"no," he said.


Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Little Debbie sells whole boxes of this shit for just over a buck. Word to the wise.

christina said...

steve, nothing makes me happier than you are shitfaced and writing kickass posts using chuck palahniuk's voice and then commenting on my site with the enthusiasm of a spammer.

Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

I get overexcited sometimes. I'm glad I'm welcome here.