Because I Have To

After a long, tumultuous relationship, I think it's finally over. Perhaps he's gotten too boring; we've fallen into a rut. I'm left with a dull, gnawing ache in my stomach all the time thinking about it. I really need him to live.

This isn't an exaggeration. I'm talking about food.

We've never really gotten along. I don't like eating. I only do it because the alternative, death, is a bit worse.

But occasionally, my will to live takes a small dive and I start eating the minimal amount necessary to sustain existence. Lately, I've been eating a cup of rice and those kinds of pickles that come on the side of sandwiches in nicer restaurants, and that's about it. It gets to the point that I actually feel sick after eating anything resembling an actual meal. Stomach shock, I guess.

I'm weird. I know. My family repeatedly tells me this as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, repulsed by all that surrounds me, rooted there by my grumbling, angry stomach.

My dad and brother love food. They adopt this look of pure joy while eating the simplest of dinners. While they have their fair share of dislikes as anyone does, they'll eat almost anything and are usually happy to do it. They don't understand how I can leave anything uneaten, push any dish away by just smelling it. My brother is appalled that I don't like the cheap version of pizza served in the Golden Coral buffet, but I'm not putting anything in my mouth that is not at least mildly aesthetically pleasing.

Concerned about my lack of what you'd call a sustainable diet, my mother appealed to the Swann's lady with her large truck full of various foods. Mom must've mentioned my childhood pension for steak, because they were vehemently advocating these "steak bites" things. Mom bought them and was brandishing the bag in my face when I most recently wandered into the kitchen to stare helplessly.

Unable to resist her pleas, I put the "steak bites" into the microwave. Immediately this seems like a bad sign, to put steak into a microwave. But that is what it said. So in they go. In the bag, they strongly resemble dog food made for a large German Shepard.

After spinning around in the microwave for a few minutes, the bag tells me to stir them. I'm not sure how you stir solid food. This was my second warning. But, under Mom's watchful eye, I flipped them over and stuck them back in the microwave.

When I pulled them out this time, they were simply hunks of oddly colored meat surrounded by a sea of speckled grease. Third warning, using the word "warning" lightly.

Undiscouraged, or at least not showing it, Mom says, "Put them on another plate and eat them." So begin transferring the supposed savior of my tastebuds to a clean plate. I can already tell, just by forking them, that their consistency is more like slightly thawed frozen jello than any steak I've ever eaten. Fourth warning.

Finally, the time has come to consume the blasted hunks of prepackaged grease and fat. I put one in my mouth. The taste isn't too horrible, though it reminds me somewhat of the deer my uncle forced me to eat when I was little. (Possible fifth warning?)

The consistency is horrible though. It's like chewing gum, but slimey. Mom sees the disgust on my face as I try to swallow the small piece, but she is unsympathetic. "They were expensive and you need to eat. Eat them."

So with that, I covered them in A1 sauce and forced my way through the awful plate. There's still a whole bag of them waiting to torture me in the refrigerator.

And what's that? I think I hear my stomach growling.
I hate food.