food isn't fun anymore

tomato season eve, 2026

i want to come down but stay high. reaching for the next bite without knowing if i can fit what’s in my mouth down my throat. it’s a soulless but consuming feeling that i’m chasing it like a bat outta fuck.

my refrigerator is a humiliation ritual of rotating decay. dead citrus. limp broccoli. forgotten receptacles of spoiled dairy. pathetically untended. clinically ignored.

the idea of having to cut produce makes me sick to my stomach. even the simple act of flipping the oven on to preheating sounds horrid. it’s debilitating. demoralizing. i’m tired of this charmless banality. the endless drudge.

i like the idea of soylent green but not for the reason you might think. sometimes i wish it was as simple as nitrodiet oxycarbon they sold on a tube for you to slam on your lunch break. what do you mean i have to choose between proteins and carbs again? it was good the first time but give it a rest. call a spade a spade. a transaction between mouth and stomach. fat to serotonin. caffeine to anxiety.

i catch myself contemplating what it would be like to rip out my tongue with a wrench à la sylvia bourdain. i’m reading too much feminist-lit as of late and my girlfriend is starting to get annoyed.

‘god, what does that say about me?’ she bemoans as a droll audiobook narrator chirps through my automatic car bluetooth system, monologuing about substance abuse and emotional paranoia.

you can fill a whole page describing medications, apparently, and no one will stop you. you can fill a whole menu with bullshit and people will still pay out the nose. green goddess desolation for the table please. yes i am still monologuing about grain types and no i do not plan on stopping anytime soon. maybe i can trade this reservation for a cat scan or maybe even a lobotomy.

the appropriate ratio of emotional space you should occupy in the kitchen is zero percent. i will rewrite this recipe until it’s perfect in a way no one gives a second thought to. will I finally get it on the fiftieth try?

my hunger is developing it’s own special hunger. gathering like a storm cloud over my every meal. unfolding like a black sheet that slips across the sky. lost in the crass mores of the cult of al fresco. consumed without a second thought.