When is the Taco Worth Dying Over?

 

R.J and I have had this conversation so many times.

Me: (While passing a Taco Bell) I really want a taco!

R.J: So let’s get a taco.

Me: You know I can’t have a taco! I’ll die.

______

Me: (While passing the Shake Shack) I really want a milkshake!

R.J: So drink a milkshake!

Me: If I have a milkshake I’ll die.

R.J: But it’ll be worth it.

Me: Not if I die before I finish drinking it, which I will.

______

Me: (While passing any pizza place) I really want a slice of pizza!

R.J: So let’s have pizza tonight.

Me: I can’t. I’ll—

R.J: Die. Yeah. I get it.

______

My diet?

Little_Dark_Gloomy

Full_Dead_people

The list of foods I want to eat, but know I’ll end up in excruciating, unbearable pain from grows longer every day. I want eggs. I want cream cheese. I want ice cream. But I won’t eat it.

I still get stomach pains when I think of the last time I ate a meal’s worth of danger food. It was during a GI test at an outpatient center where they wanted to see what would happen if I ate a bagel with cream cheese and two fried eggs. I, in some existential and gastrointestinal sense died. So now we know.

I still remember crawling around on my bathroom floor hysterically crying. I think that meal alone gave me PTSD.

So as much as I may crave a milkshake or hanker for a taco or covet a fried egg—I don’t do it. I’m not suicidal. My plain bagel proves it. My cheese-less garlic bread proves it. I want to live. I want to flourish.

But god damn do I want a taco.

 

 

 

 

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