There’s a fact about myself that I have been trying to ignore for 30 years. And up until recently I would have sworn to you that it’s not true. But it’s due time to own up to it. The truth is I become a violent psychopath when I’m hungry. I am capable of imagining some of the most violent acts known to mihow when I am deprived of food and my blood sugar’s down.
Take today for example, Toby and I ventured out to our usual brunch haunt in Adam’s Morgan, The Assylum. (I am only now realizing the comedy here). I was hesitant to leave the house as I have a lot of work to do for delivery on Monday morning. Some of which, I haven’t even begun. But he talked me into it. It wasn’t hard. It’s really very pretty out.
I arrived hungry. I arrived an hour into hungry, possibly even two hours into hungry. When I get hungry, I lose my head. Toby fears me when I’m hungry. He has started carrying nuts to stuff into my mouth at the first sign of a tweak. I’m like a zoo animal. I’m like The Incredible Hulk, only replace anger with food, replace presence with lack, and replace bulky green man with hungry irish girl.
But first I need to step back for a minute and tell you about something else. Over the past couple of weeks, I have developed an upper-back problem. Though we are not yet sure what the actual problem is, the orthopedic surgeon seems to think it’s the fascia in between my shoulder blade and my rib cage. To put it simply, it fucking hurts. It fucking hurts constantly. It fucking makes me cranky. Fuck.
I am on Vioxx. I am to take Vioxx with a meal to avoid tummy issues and dizziness. I take it in the morning. So, in my stupid assumption regarding the normal, restaurant-industry, food delivery, turn-around time, I pop the pill into my snout as soon as we’re done ordering our food.
Bad idea. I realize this 45 minutes in when the food we ordered starts to inch towards a mere fantasy. And me? I am becoming more and more visibly anxious and psychotic.
Where the hell is the food? My belly is starting to turn. Where is our food? Were they here before us? They got here after us. Where is our food?
And then my mind starts to go. The girls behind us are packing their cigarettes. SHE JUST KEEPS PACKING THE PACK! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! And she’s talking. I hate her talking. I hate the way she talks and I hate her face. She probably eats Little Debbie’s for breakfast. I start to imagine doing things. I think of turning around, taking the smokes from her, and beating her forehead with them. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! LET ME SHOW YOU HOW TO PACK THOSE THINGS. The guy at the end of the bar has a mohawk. I think to myself that he looks stupid and that I should tell him that he looks stupid and and then I should shave that thing off. A girl behind me says the word LIKE too much. I could take his shaved mohawk and sprinkle it into her food. HER FOOD!!! WHY DOES THAT GIRL HAVE FOOD
Toby, this was a bad idea. We should go to Subway. This is stupid. Where is our food. I took my pill. I should have waited. I should not have taken my pill. WHERE IS OUR FUCKING FOOD?!
What do you want me to do? Let me at least tell them we’re leaving and we’ll go.
I’m getting worse by the minute. I imagine throwing the condiments, I mean really throwing them. I imagine hurling them towards the back of someone’s head. I imagine pulling the waitresses hair and poking her eyes with my thumb. And I think I would have actually have done it if she didn’t start ignoring us when she realized that we had been there for so long. This was slowly turning into a scene straight out of a Nick Cave song.
I’m going to kill her. And her too. Why are they all smoking? Where is our food? Toby, it’s happening again.
(Who is this person visiting my head? And why is she so mean? LET HER GO MICHELE! SHE CAN KILL THEM AND YOU CAN EAT THESE PEOPLE! Something must be done with her. She is not pleasant).
Toby, I’m trying to remain calm like we talked about. But it’s getting hard. We should probably just go.
We never get our food. Instead, we do leave. And like some rabid, frothing at the mouth, wild bore, I run across the street and put my face into the first bowl of goodness I can find.
I do not consider myself a violent person. I can’t handle watching violence, let alone taking part in it. I hide my eyes during violent acts on PG television. Recently, I gave up watching violent films all together. But if I’m hungry, someone ugly visits the inside of my head and beats a peaceful notion with a Ghandi stick. And it’s purely chemical and all together inhuman.
Today was the first time where, once I calmed down and was fed something, I was actually worried for her (me). Today was the first time I became concerned for the well being of the general public and breakable objects everywhere.
And from now on, I’m carrying snacks.