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Habit, not hunger

Most of the building where my office is, isn’t offices. It’s a giant downtown department store, western flagship of the chain, where tomorrow the store will host its big annual fashion show. The corporate CEO will be here — he's flying in from New York City — and everyone in the office is really excited, like the King of Earth is coming to town. 

I do not share the excitement. This is a stupidly-run, bankrupt business that treats its employees awful, and he's the man ultimately responsible for every dumb and cruel decision. Until the rumors and whispers of his impending visit, I didn't even know his name, but I am not a fan.

Just based on the executives I've interacted with, the higher anyone's rank, the more they're an asshole. So tomorrow, our company's widest gaping unwiped asshole will be here, shaking hands in the store and walking through our offices.

And people are happy about his visit?

♦ ♦ ♦

I eat shit, in large quantities. Not literally, of course, but I shovel the worst things down my throat regularly — hamburgers, pork, bologna, ham, Spam, and all sorts of salty processed soup from a can. None of it is good for me, and it’s made me repulsively fat. My daily regimen of lack-of-exercise hasn’t helped, either.

A thought has been brewing in my mind since that letter from Tim a few days ago, where he mentioned that better bowels and reduced hemorrhoidal itch can be side effects of going vegetarian.

No, I am not going vegetarian. I’ve done that twice, and returned twice to meatballs and franks and other glorious forms of broiled or baked or fried animal flesh. But I’m going to buy and eat less meat, and more fruits and vegetables, bread, tuna, peanut butter and such.

And obviously, if I’m categorizing tuna as “not meat,” I’m not taking this too seriously. A major life change it ain't, just a minor adjustment. At the Sincere Cafe, I’m still going to order the Number 1, which is pork, prawns, and more pork. But meat will be an exception, not on the daily menu.

♦ ♦ ♦

Here’s my next thought, in sequence: I’m getting too old to eat like a teenager all the time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve eaten (shit) whenever I felt like it, which is not at all the same as eating when I’m hungry.

Honestly, I haven’t felt genuine hunger very often in my life. It’s habit, never hunger, that leads me to eat three meals daily, plus snacks. How American is that?

If I keep my mind occupied with other things, I can forget to eat, and miss a meal entirely. Which is good. I could stand to miss more meals. In the last few days, staring at the typewriter and getting all introspective, first about money, then guilt, and now health, I’ve forgotten to eat two meals. I should try keeping that streak going ... but I won't.

♦ ♦ ♦

Two letters from the mailbag …

… I’m not sure what to think of your zine. You seem to have a lot of hostility toward your mother, but there isn’t anything so awful in your description of her behavior. She’s eccentric? She gets on your nerves? Big deal.

She is your mother, and one day she’ll be gone, like my mother is. When that day comes, you’ll miss her then. You’ll give anything for a few days with her.

It’s like, come on, what would it have cost you to trade rooms with her? Nothing, and it would have made a nice old lady happy, instead of making her cry …
—Fred Moore

I never know what to think when someone says they don’t know what to think. You think what you think, that’s all, and apparently you think I should’ve moved out of my room and let my mom live there. If that’s what you think, that’s what you think. I’m not offended that you’re offended, but I’m not moving out of my room.

When my mom is dead, I’ll miss her and have many regrets, but I won’t regret anything I did or didn't do when she was here last month. My manners were impeccable, she was quite rude, and I'm going to decline your invitation for a guilt trip.

Your breath is enough to gag me. Your fingers up your nostrils are easing up a bit, but your gas is enough to make a dead person vomit. You are a joy, a treasure, and I’m still deeply in love with you. Your especially darlin’ babe,
—Maggie

From Pathetic Life #4
Wednesday, September 21, 1994

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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