When you overdose your blood pulses so fast you seem to
trigger a second heart.  When the sugar heart is pumping inside
you, the blood squirts underneath your skin miles per hour faster
than ever, you're rocking back and forth in your sneakers, looking
up at the cumulus clouds.  There's a smile on your lips, the
double-scoop chocolate ice cream cone is slowly melting its way out
of the base of the cone onto your arm.  You try to enjoy it as
slowly as possible without having it leak all over you, but even an
expert can fail at that task.  Your lips, chin, mouth, and hands
are stained with a shit brown color.  You run to the street corner
and think that the world really does spin around.

     Should the body be a reservoir for junk?  You have to abhor
the idea of the body to be a serious devotee of junk food.
Though it is through this weird meat contraption that I find this
quick solace, the heart-heavy pulses of relief and release, I am
repulsed by the reality of flesh, of fat, of my ugliness.  This
conception of the body strikes me as very Catholic and regressive
and in the end only good for medieval saints who can fly up to God
after years of brutally pummeling themselves.  But there's a little
of the saint in every junkfoodie; we're all persecuted in this
fattist society and we all secretly want to leave this body behind.

     At some point in the last few years, I stopped being chubby, I
became fat.  And I can't say it's like I didn't notice or
something, 'cause I notice every new stretch mark, every extension
of the little fat roll on the back of my neck.  But I don't stop
eating processed sugars.  If I'm addicted to anything, it's instant
gratification itself; hence, I never seem to, never want to put two
and two together and aware myself of what the results of my actions
are.  I just wanta get off now.

. . . . .