I love food. I’m talking eating it, making it, rolling in it–just kidding; unless you count that time in high school when we wrestled in green mashed potatoes for a PTA organized activity (that’s not weird at all..). I sometimes worry about how long it takes me to feel totally full. I’ve lied at many group dinners, chimed in, grabbing my stomach, “me too, owie!” when everyone griped about how full they were. I have gotten more compliments from waiters than any other class of folks, all on my ability to clean my plate (and I swear I will smack the next waiter in the face who says, “looks like you hated it!”). My ideal situation is when I go out to eat with my friends whose eyes are bigger than their stomachs. I am an overall healthy eater–you have to be with my appetite–so I’ll order something relatively nutritious and then the second my plate is cleared, move on to the remainder of my friend’s food. It’s like having a trash compactor right there at the table.
It was those years in and right after college when I was MVP of late night eating. With alcohol to lubricate my insides, the capacity for food knew no bounds. There was the time I left a boy’s apartment with 2 full slices of pizza in my pocketbook. Yes, pizza was a popular item. I didn’t even eat red meat in the sober-light of day, but at night, I reached across the table and ate the remainder of a slice of meat-pizza, left behind by a random stranger (I’m not proud). Or, when I woke up with Twizzler wrappers stuck all along my body, my hair matted with chocolate and my fingers smelling of some sort of cheese. I had a habit of opening up various packages of candy in the aisles of CVS, doing a quick quality control test with my mouth, and then leaving empty handed. I discovered that pretzels went great with just about anything melted on top of them–cheese, chocolate, marshmallows, you name it. And, a lesson to all, you can totally leave the stove, the toaster, whatever! on all night and your house won’t actually burn down!
If you were a roommate of mine, you had to know that no item of food was fully safe from the wrath of the bottomless pit. So, let’s say you baked a giant cake for your boyfriend’s birthday the following day. And, let’s just say you left it in the kitchen, in plain sight, on a night when I was drunk and hungry (since I often bypassed horny straight to hungry). Well, then you would only expect that upon my return that night, I would have to fully eat that cake. And that is exactly what I did. Like a murderer realizing the crime they just committed was wrong, I did everything I could to cover it up. I set my alarm for 7AM Sunday morning and ran to the nearest grocery store to buy all the items to recreate the cake. They didn’t have the same frosting–she used Pillsbury but they only had Dunkin Hines–what to do?! There’s not much time! Dripping sweat I mixed, cracked and spread until I had created a replica of that cake.
Regardless of being sober or drunk, I can eat. I can’t even imagine how hot I’d be if I had a normal sized appetite. I assume I’d look something like this:
It would all backfire though. Carl Jr.’s would ask me to model, I’d graciously accept, and then the second they placed that hamburger in my hand, I’d be done for it, back to looking more like this: