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.
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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