Come along, chirrun. Wander with me along the paths of lighthearted insomniacal despair.
Let's say you've spent approximately the past five months coming to terms with your bright-and-shiny, newly-named Mental Health Thing, which you've kept private because no, you are not a crazy person, but yeah, you kind of are, but that has little to do with illness, amirite? (rimshot). Things seem to be evening out, which is nice. Real, bone-deep optimism and hope, and not just hope, but hope with the potential for longevity. Big deal. Yooge.
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| Yooooooge. |
But some serious things have happened in the meantime, and maybe you've blown off therapy for a few weeks, because you tell yourself I just can't talk yet but you know it really means I just don't want to sit in that room and fall apart, sobbing and wailing until I give myself a migraine.
And maybe none of that has anything to do with anything, really, and you might just be starting to write about it because it's maybe time to start writing a little about it. Whatever. You find yourself upright in bed with a head full of everything, stream-of-consciousness-ing all over this screen, and your stomach is pretty furious with you because you are also an idiot who did this thing:
I'm ashamed to tell you what that is FINE it's a base of Lucky Charms held together by marshmallow with vanilla ice cream in the middle topped with white chocolate-Lucky Charms bark and I hate everything. I saw it in this video like two weeks ago...
... and reacted like this: what. gross. will make. don't you dare and it just wouldn't go away; it, like, wooed me with the idea of crunchy marshmallow held together by gooey marshmallow - a horrifying technicolor sugar-Inception that burrowed into my brain and bellowed and bullied and bull-horned until I couldn't help but devote way too much effing attention to it.
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| Moashmalluhs held tuhgethuh wid moashmalluhs? SOMEBODY BUILD A WOALL |
Now, I'm a chef and all, which means that, when I am at my worst, I eat a bunch of gross crap because I feel tired of food almost always, until I remember that I am not tired of it, which makes no sense, but there you go. So, upon watching that clip of corn-syrupy pornography, I thought some things like these (and they were all correct):
- That looks like it would hurt my mouth
- Wouldn't the marshmallow part freeze too hard to pierce with a spoon or fork
- That is not a cake at all
- The white chocolate bark part looks disgusting
- The whole thing looks disgusting
- This looks like I want to cry
- If I make this, I am disgusting
But I just had to. Because of how horrible it looked. Does that make sense at all? Shut up; yes it does.
There is no correct way to engage with this sugary brain-worm infiltration other than ham-fisted suppression (ham sounds really good right now; please just pour salt in me), but if you're going to cheerfully throw caution to the wind and brain/pancreas/liver/stomach to the toilet (literally, on that last one), allow me to draw you a verbal map to the exact WRONG way to engage:
- Generally swear off added sugar for a few months
- Do a pretty good job at it
- Watch that video
- Make the thing
- Eat any part of it
There is also a less-tragic, but still totally wrong way to go about it:
- With each necessary ingredient you toss in your cart, tell yourself you'll buy a vegetable
- Forget to
- Make only a half-batch of the "cake"
- Eat exactly five bites of it
- Throw the rest in the trash
- Assume it's melting through some tiny hole in the bag and rendering itself a nuisance, as such tragedies are wont to do.
- Spend a little while on the toilet, experiencing sharp pains and expelling sugary rainbows from your nethers....
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| ...surely you saw this coming. |
Choose your own adventure. They're all wrong. Had I abstained, even, I would always wonder, and I would rather know and experience than wonder! [And that, chirrun, is the kind of logic that will always get you in trouble.]
Run along, now. Eat your vegetables, or you won't get any dessert.
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