Loneliness Lives My Belly

Loneliness lives my belly and so I’m always hungry. Ravenous. Starving. Overeating. I now eat things that I otherwise would scoff at, like eggs. I eat them fried, hard boiled, and sunny side up with the yolk runny, but it tastes creamy and like America. I eat a jar of peanut butter a week, straight from the jar a nickel plated spoon in my mouth. When it comes to Peanut butter I have a problem and should consider a support group because going through a 410 gram jar of partial hydrodgenation is just unhealthy—I go through it in a couple of days really, but I refuse to buy another jar until the following week. I eat avocados and think of Baja Buds burritos, the basement, lunchtime. I think of my mother’s perpetual struggle with her weight and I file it away in my mental rolodex as I begin to bake brownies. I’ve made regular brownies but those are too sweet and have way too much oil—my tastebuds tell me this, not my conscience—so I cut the amount of sugar in half and use real butter, the expensive kind that I have to go to Lobatse for because butter tastes better. Its not as greasy so I butter up my conscience and add coconut and make chocolate macaroons. And then I think of my coffee shop in Culver City and Mexican mochas along with overpriced but tasty macaroons. My macaroons aren’t so tasty but fuck it, I’ll take what I can get, like the freeze dried Nescafe that has no chicory added. Ooh, and by the way. Pasteurization is a French word that means “take all the flavor out.” Unpasteurized full cream milk is delicious. It’s the equivalent to drinking coffee creamer. Half and Half. Damn good, high caloric goodness to fill the expanding void I call my belly.