I find it funny how random my blog is sometimes. Sometimes, I write about stuff that means so much, that’s so profound- at least to some people, if not everyone, and even if not to myself sometimes- and then there are times when I write on the most trivial of things. Like right now. I think I’ll talk about food right now.
I used to think food really was a big part of myself, of who I was. I really did. I used to think eating helped me through a lot of things. I ate when I felt sad. I ate when I felt happy. I ate when I was tired and needed energy. I always ate a little something before going to bed, and, too, at four in the afternoon when I had nothing else to do and my stomach would make these rumbling sounds. I’d eat anything, anything at all. A dozen chocolate-chip cookies. A little chocolate bar, perhaps. A packet of chips from the kitchen cupboard, or maybe what’s my most favorite thing: boiling hot instant noodles. I swear I’d eat them even in the middle of summer.
But now, now I don’t believe in all that crap. I’ve become a few days older, you see, and several centuries wiser. I’ve had an almost epiphanic revelation. I’ve realised something: I just like to eat a lot. Pray it doesn’t all go straight to my thighs.