Food Blog: Never Again.

Never again.
Never again would I consent to be part of the insolent crowd, among the wasteland of promised plenty. Never again do I want to see a girl in knee-high green cowboy boots saunter across the street while the humid air flaunts its brutal 38 degrees Celcius. Sure, those boots were made for walking, but my fists were made for punching. We lost our civility and our grace, and we didn't even win.

"Would you deny me of MY TROPHY?!?"
TJ screams at the security guards. I pause in my steps, sweat from the last three hours caking on my arms, unsure of whether I should shuffle out the exit gate, or save TJ's trophy - seventeen layers of thirsty enthusiasm - by grabbing it and sprinting away. No one was allowed to steal. There was no time to choose. The security guard opened his mouth. I stared at him. He fished for words. TJ clutched her seventeen vessels of joy. Three milliseconds and -
"I checked. They're empty."

"YESSS!" TJ bounds out the exit, jumping with ecstasy, her insulin levels pumping, her duodenum soaking up multifarious molecules. Yet minutes later, the trophy lay in a trash can, ready for the landfill. No one won. Not even leukemia.

I had run all the way to Penn's Landing - 40 streets - and for what? I shelled over seven dollars just to "Lick for Leukemia". Seven dollars can buy me lunch for a week. They'll spend that money on advertising, training, "general fees", holiday parties, toner, and - how-could-I-forget - the last cent will be used to manufacture bracelets that are for "Pediatric Leukemia Awareness". Perhaps that's not true at all, but it's what I would like to think, because when the contrary happens, I would be pleasantly surprised.

Lick for Leukemia, and you're donating towards your own risk of diabetes. Never again.

Predictably, all the companies that we "hate" were there to enslave us. No bathrooms. Two dollars for water. We were in a cage, fed like snails. We WERE snails: oblivious, slow, and leaving a slimy trail of melted ice cream and putrid cups behind us. The working class (who usually raise their fists in anger at those deceiving, lying, bad-customer-service, you-spat-in-my-drink businesses) slopped down their rainbow water ice. The mothers (who make petitions and write angry letters to these companies concerning their advertising tactics) shoved full-fat chocolate ice cream down their kids' throats. I was there, remarking that each glob vanilla ice cream that slid down my throat melted into a creamy imprint in my adipose tissue. There aren't enough medics to save us all, because none of us think that we need help.

When I look at my 12 layered "trophy", should I be pleased? After the third or fifth cup of ice cream, all my body's dopamine had been exhausted. Ice cream was nothing more than an obligation. I inhaled it all down. I needed the Calories, because we want to believe that seven dollars is worth more than merely a thousand empty Calories. Why not make it worth two thousand five hundred? 12 cups of ice cream, one of which I shared. 2 fruit bars. 1 fake grape ice. Each cup had half an American scoop of ice cream. 200 Calories, each, at least (on the minimum side). Each fruit bar was about 120 Calories. The grape thing was about 100. Over 2500 Calories of sugar and fat and occasional self-loathing. Never again.

TJ and I felt completely fine. We're both gluttons. Pick your most disgusting meaning of that word, and we're no doubt worse. I didn't feel full (well, of course! There was no fiber). I felt like I could eat pizza or celery or even cheesecake. I could run and sprint. I did sprint. No nausea. Apparently both TJ and I have become accustomed to being unhealthy.

There was no sense of satisfaction. No feeling of reward. I didn't earn this. It's like buying love. I don't deserve it. It's not special. They'll take anyone who pays. Non-nutritional. Void of meaning. When I was younger, my parents let me eat two glorious ice pops in a row once, and I promptly got sick (not sure if it was related to the ice pops). That was vivid. Another time (of relative economic hardship), my mum bought me and my brother a legitimate soft serve ice cream, garnished with a whole Flake chocolate. That was meaning. Once, my friends and I got gelato and it was the first time I had tried it. A small scoop of powerful fun. All that tasted like love.

This was faceless, selfish, and shameful. No thanks. Never again.