"I'm The Pretty Pie Girl. I'm The Pretty Pie Girl." her adorable face sings as she waltzes and twirls with a chocolate cookie. The TV is blaring, "You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie." She has the head of a girl and the body of a pie, with one slice missing at the bottom. Her generated face is more beautiful and happier than humanly possible. Her tiny arms have gloves and tiny legs have boots. She sways and sirens, "You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie."
"I'm your Ookie Ookie Cookie," the dark cube croons in lowest bass.
I select a box from the cupboard, The Hexachocolator, a six sided cake with six kinds of chocolate. In bright yellow letters it proclaims, "Zero Grams Trans Fat." That's good.
Now she's going down a slide, "Capsulsgrave Pies and Cookies are Deeeeee-licious." I crack two eggs. Look at all the subliminal sexual cues. This borders on child porn. Anything to sell as many as boxes of poison as possible. I measure out the oil. I use olive oil not grease. The box says one cup, but I'm gonna use half. One cup, that's crazy.
I beat the mix with a wooden spoon.
The "real" children, one tenth as cartoonish, are banging their spoons to the musical on their breakfast table chanting, "Ookie Ookie Cookie." How many impressionable minds are watching this whorescrappening? I pour and bake at 375.
I step out for some air. Davey is squatting against the side of the house. Only a skinny person can sit like that. Both my legs would snap off. A roll up burning between his blackened fingers, he spits mucus onto the blacktop between his legs. Doesn't that sight disgust him? At least spit to the side. He doesn't care. Davey has a boyish face and manner. He doesn't care much about shaving or changing clothes, but he does it when Vivian kicks him in the butt. He's forty, but sounds younger, "God bless you, Fox."
"How are you, Dave?"
"Oh, fine. Fine. Fine." His voice is pleasant and rhythmic.
"What you up to?"
"Trimmed Miss Martha's bushes yesterday." His face brightens, "Oh, Miss Martha is a pretty girl." He giggles and mumbles unintelligeable syllables as he brings his face into my face. I back up. Oh excuse me, do you mind if you don't spit in my mouth?
"She gave me five dollars."
"I hope you invested it wisely."
"I got a pack of these and a pop."
"So what are your plans for today?"
"Oh, Nuthin. Nuthin."
Why does everyone keeps saying that?
"What ya doin?"
He smokes more than anyone would possibly need to. I shouldn't criticize. The things I'm not supposed to do come naturally. The fingers closest to the cigarette are stained the darkest. Same pattern on his teeth. I've got to quit smoking. His father nagged him to quit for years, then died from lung cancer. You could say it matters, you could say it doesn't matter. Is one death better than another? Why live at all?
I go upstairs. I can see my coat hanging at the bottom of the winding bannister below. Burt is in my pocket taking a cigarette. I go to the office and tell Diane. She has a perfect face and body. No chance she would ever want me. Besides staff can't date residents. But even if she could, she wouldn't. She tells me not to leave things out. That's what they say? That's the official West House policy? Anything left out is up for grabs?
I go in the TV room and sit on the couch to fill out the application for the Office of Disabled Services so I can get a job and get out of this forsaken institution as soon as possible. Pat sits on the other couch smoking. Every so often, she turns her head to the side, then back, like a chicken.
Oh boy, here we go, first question: ETHNIC GROUP. They don't even ask name first. Two boxes-one for white, one for black. I opt to fill in my own answer- 1/16 Light, 1/16 Dark, 1/16 Medium, 1/16 Medium Dark, 1/16 Medium Light, 1/16 Dark Medium Light, 1/16 Light Medium Light.
Pat is snoring with a cigarette burning in her mouth.
I say, "PAT."
"Thank you." She taps off her ash, turns her head, and goes back to smoking.
Second question: Age. I write,"40," quickly and legibly.
Third question: Describe how your disability prevents you from working? I think about it. You're asking me? Ask the doctor. The hospital has a file cabinet full of my records. Why are you asking me? It's hard to put into words. I think and think. I crumple the paper into a ball and throw it in the basket. Nice shot.
Loucarla, another super hot girl, comes out of the kitchen and announces dinner. So pretty. Petite. Skinny legs. She's got the Snowchester farm girl look. Blue jeans. A curly mane with bangs. She's got the accent. Says Snowchester in one syllable, "Snochstr." I have no chance with her either.
There's twenty of us eating at the long antique table. This house was a mansion in the twenties. The frames of the windows and walls have fancy carving. We get to live where rich people used to live. Of course when they had it everything was new. This mansion was all for just one family. We have twenty people living spaciously.
You see the same pattern on the street, a mansion every couple of blocks, with ten normal houses in between. What used to be one rich person's estate is now split into fifty normal sized yards.
I'm sitting next to Pretty Tony. He looks across the table to Loucarla and whispers, "I tapped that in the phone room." He smiles big. "I went right up to her in the phone room and pulled her pants down." We chuckle.
I say, "Loucarla, this tuna is really good."
She answers, "Thank you. The trick is fresh garlic. . .These hot dogs have half the fat."
I am morally compelled to speak up, "And what about carcinogens? Do they have half the carginogens?"
Everyone at the table gets quiet. Bingo.
Burt says, "Car-in-o-gen." He slows down on the difficult letters.
I hold up an imaginary package. "Hello. Carcinogens. . . Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Nitrate. I rest my case."
"Hot dogs don't cause cancer," says Hippo.
Pat says, "I think I'm going to be sick."
Burt says, "Say goo'night."
Rich says, "There's nothing wrong with the hotdogs. They're the best, Roscoe Mueller."
I say no more, not to make a scene, but I snear knowingly. Oh no. They wouldn't put anything bad in something people eat.
Loucarla says, "Do you go through this every time you eat?"
A noticeably attractive girl is talking to me and smiling. This has to be a set up. She cons me into thinking she likes me, and when we go back to her room, her boyfriend jumps me.
"Where do you think cancer comes from?" Why even get my hopes up? I'm sure she's not into fat guys. "Well not every time. Well pretty much, yea, every time. Well probably not EVERY time, but most times."
She is staring.
"There were probably a few times I didn't."
She says, "I'll take that as a yes."
"So pretty much everything causes cancer." She laughs.
"Hydrogenated oil is heart attacks, but pretty much. Hot dogs, cold cuts, fruits and vegetables with pesticides, anything that comes in a plastic packaging, and of course coffee stirrers."
"Well yeah, think about it, you're putting a thin little strip of plastic into piping hot coffee and you're swirling it around. Do you have any idea how many thousands of carcinogens leech into the coffee? A lot."
"They wouldn't make anything that touches food with harmful chemicals."
I get louder, "You would think that! Sounds like a good rule. Death, take me now! . . . Are you kidding me? Please tell me you're kidding, because if you're not kidding then, you have to be kidding me. They don't care. Do you know how a large corporation operates? They don't care if they kill people. They only care about one thing"
She cuts me off, "Follow the money."
"That's right." I laugh. They would sell rat poison if they could and call it Ratty-O's.
Loucarla can't see Pretty Tony smiling at her, subtly grabbing and thrusting like Michael Jackson, suggesting sex. I look back skeptically. He laughs. Pretty crude table manners. No one else notices.
I continue, "The birds dropping. It's a pyramid scheme. The dollar bill, look, a pyramid. They're all in on it. Don't you see? Follow the money."
"Foxavier, do you want fries?" I shouldn't, but I take some. Why am I doing this evil thing? It tastes good. You'll feel sick after. I feel sick now. Try not to take too many.
Burt is pushing the mashed potatoes towards Ralph, "No you finish your ve-ta-ble."
Ralph is smiling. He's pushing it back, "Have some more potatoes. You're a growing boy."
Burt, "You-r a gro-ing bo-y. . . I don't want any more, Ralph. I had a whole bag of chi-ps." I look at Ralph. He could be a serial killer. It would be the perfect opportunity, a counselor in a group home. I have no evidence, just a feeling.
Sonny takes a bite of my cake and says, "Mondays at six." Talking about her painting class. She's painted hundreds of free portraits and given hundreds of free lessons. There is no expression on her face. She looks like she's going to sleep. Her body drops on the floor. Pat yells, "Oh!" Everyone gathers around and we call 911. The ambulance takes her away unconscious.
It couldn't be the cake. The box specifically said, "Zero grams trans fat." I'm positive. I get the box out of the trash. See, "Zero grams trans fat per serving." Per serving? Why is 'per serving' in small letters? I read the ingredients: Water, bromated flour, hydrogenated rapeseed oil! Hydrogenated rapeseed oil? Those sneaky bastards. It was the cake. I read the word "hydrogenated" one more time on the side of the box.
After dinner a bunch of us sneak out the bedroom window and sit on the roof. Dennis, the biggest, with the deepest voice, smiles and giggles, "Kiss it."
Pretty Tony states with confidence,"Pimps up. Ho's down." How do you even respond to that? I just shake my head. He laughs, "You're problem is you need some pussy." He's right, although I don't agree with his methods.
Nate chuckles deeply and passes the KOOL to Burt.
Burt takes a long drag, then coughs it out making a sour face. "I got... my gir'friend...in Can-ton O-hio." He smiles with his long sloppy handlebar moustache..
Dennis says, "Intercourse," and chuckles.
I'm nervous about getting caught. "I'm going back in." I climb back in the window.
Burt says, "Say goo'night."
I hear the guy downstairs announce with his heavy Indian accent, "MED-I-CA-TION!" I descend the staircase. I'm first.
Then Hippo comes up. "I was here first." He's so big, by comparison I look like a troll. I say nothing.
"That's my place," he says with his big dumb face.
He yells at maximum volume turning his whole head red,"I WAS HERE FIRST!"
Everybody looks at him. I let him go, just to be the bigger man. This isn't the frikkin money line, it's a medication line. I guess he needs his medication real bad. Obviously. Can you blame him for being born and raised a pig? My life is not so much a life as a series of awkwardnesses.
I take two green and yellow capsules, Noeffenwayazil. It was just featured on the front page of The New York Times with the headline, "The New Miracle Drug!"
I read the ingredients on the empty cake box again, "Water, Bromated Flour," How can water be the first ingredient? It's a dry mix? Hydrogenated rapeseed oil. Just another name for trans fat.
If there is less than .5 grams per serving, they can legally call that zero. You think you're eating zero, but you're really eating .49 grams. Those bastards.
It's my fault for not having a microscope on me when I was reading the ingredients.
Rich makes an announcement, "Guys, I have some sad news to report. Sonny passed away."
I'm a murderer.
Life is an ocean of sorrow and I don't have a paddle.
I keep busy by baking a cake every day. I'm going to be a millionaire one day. I also do logic puzzles. I spend my allowance on puzzle magazines. I invent a chart system that makes it easy. It gets boring.
Then my medicine starts screwing with me, giving me internal ejaculation. You can get hard, but you can't come down, no way. My inhibitions lower and I ask Diane if she would sleep with me. So that gets me suspended, which upsets me more, so I end up in the hospital, which trips one out even more.
When I first got to the ward I was trying to pick the locks with a fork. Franafil is the one that tripped me out.
What's the first thing I see on the TV? How could such a cute little chubby darling like the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl be such a multi-conglomerate whore? When they want you to get a chip or a stamp on your head or your hand, that is the mark of the beast. Don't take the mark of the beast. They will threaten cutting off your money supply. Just remember, money is of the devil. Do not under any circumstances take the mark of the beast. Who knows it could be in the vaccines. They say it's for Pig's Disease, but it's a nano-chip so small that even the doctors think it's a real vaccine. Oh it's real all right, but it's not a vaccine, it's mind control chemicals. Don't you realize that they have been working on it for years? They can put a micro dot of chemical on a postage stamp and when you lick it, it looks just like you had a heart attack.
"Mr. Jostleplume." The nurse is holding a mini clear plastic cup with a half-green-half-yellow capsule. I take it compliantly.
"Do you know that they can drug a postage stamp so you when you lick it, you go on a twenty-four hour killing spree and the next day you don't even remember? Makes you think about licking a stamp doesn't it? Any hoo.
And what about high frequency light pulses in the TV signals. The military has been doing it for years. It was first used to sell beer. That gives you an idea how well it works. "Thank you." She throws the cup out and sprays her hands with sanitizer.
When you go into the hospital, it's a near death experience. Or maybe it's a full death experience. You're dead. Your past life is dead, but you're still alive, so this must be a new life. When you're watching TV it doesn't matter who you are or where you are. I'm watching the same show a millionaire is watching sitting in his mountain top mansion overlooking the ocean.
Beverly Hillbillies is on. There's a young thin guy watching with me. We're both in hospital gowns and booties. He laughs, "Granny's wearing Army boots."
"When you're hiking, you've got to have good shoes. I was in the Snowchester Mountaineering Society."
"The mud in the trenches was so deep that it was over their boots."
"I know these things, that's why I'm Jumping Jack Flash. I was a ranch hand at the Wind River Ranch.
Turns out we're both born February 5. I'm two years older.
"You see, Fox, because I have good training I know about these things. They fired their machine guns so much the barrels melted."
So now I'm on Querasil. One day I'm sitting in group, drawing a picture, and a feeling comes over me. I have to stand up. I don't know why. I have to walk around. I have to keep walking. My legs are walking of their own volition. It's the medicine. The medication is making me antsy. I can't take this feeling. The nurse has me take a warm bath to calm down. That helped. I pace the halls while reading the DSM3 all day long.
The nurse says, "You can't walk anymore today. It's time to go to bed."
"I told you I'm having a reaction to the medicine. I need to walk."
"It's eleven pm and everyone has to be in his bedroom."
"I'll go outside."
"After eleven pm everyone needs to be inside."
"I'm sorry. I'll be quiet, but I need to keep walking." So security had to come and that gets me a few more months stay.
Now I'm on Normalcil.
The orderly comes up to me, "What are you doing?"
"What's this?" He gestures to my hand which is plucking a hair from my eyebrow, (using a twirling vibratory technique I call a MacAllister.)
"You can't do that."
"I'm not allowed to touch myself?"
"You're not allowed to hurt yourself."
"I'm not hurting myself. I'm just touching my eyebrow."
"You can't do that."
"I always do this. I've been doing this for years."
"You are not allowed to harm yourself."
"It's a complex motor tick."
"No, it's not."
"Well I like doing it, and I'm going to keep doing it."
"If you don't stop, we will be forced to put the restraining jacket on you. "
So I'm in a straight jacket for about ten minutes.
"If I let you out will you promise to stop."
It's weird I was even doing it in public. Must've been that med. Picking, advanced picking,IAP (Instrument Assisted Picritution,) Olympic picking, the picritude of it all.
That's funny. I can smell weed. Is Jumping Jack Flash smoking weed in the hospital? He's smoking a roll up which is allowed in the Day Room. It's hard to tell. The nurse is coming.
"What are you smoking?"
"Leaves. I got some leaves off that tree over there." Turns out he didn't have any tobacco.
Nobody says, "when I grow up I want to be mentally ill." Nobody wants their daughter to marry a guy with mental illness. No woman wants someone with mental illness. They want engineers. Could that be ranking by money? All things good go to the victors. Don't listen to me, I'm depressed. Everything I say is skewed. Pay no attention to the ravings of a lunatic. Or should you? For every challenge there is a gift. Better to be happy and ignorant. I don't know how other people experience the world. Part of me is jealous and part of me is glad I'm not like them. You don't have to be jealous; you can be glad there is such beauty in the world. Be happy that it's beautiful. It is not a challenge to you. It's not a competition. At my core I'm actually a good person. I'm happy with the simple things. Clouds make me happy. I'm a good conversationalist(with myself.) I'm funny. I like helping the underdog. I try to make a positive influence on society. It's just that I hate people so much. They're so happy going about their lives, not caring about the poor people. A bunch of barbarians who think that a peak experience is gluttonizing themselves on beer, barbecue and yelling at sporting events. The cool guy in the movie is the one who beats everyone else up and gets away with the loot. The rich are just so happy with themselves. They believe it themselves that the world belongs to the fittest. They pay extra for first class, just to be away from the lower class. They want to give their kids all the advantages over the poor kids. They lock up their possessions, live behind gates, just to keep the poor from getting any of their stuff. Their stuff that they don't need or appreciate. The rich love their burglar alarms and safes. They love to lock their garbage cans. We don't want to attract poor people. One day you bastards are going to have to explain yourselves, and then we will see what good are your exclusive neighborhoods and private schools. You did yourselves and your people favors. Don't you see that life was a test, and you failed? Being nice to your co-conspirators doesn't count for squat? If you can't tell your family what you did for the money, then it's blood money. How would you like to be a lawyer or a politician on judgment day? Those $200 lunches won't be a bonus then, they will be marks of shame. All your chuckles and rationalizations will be exposed for their true nature. Explain why you made all the laws for yourself to God. Explain how everything was perfectly legal, and explain that we have the best system in the world. Explain why everyone went along with it. Define conspiracy. I am no better. Here I am filled with hatred for them. How can I not hate them, they're so evil? Does knowing you're wrong help at all?
If we ever got in a war with Japan all they would have to do is press one button, and all the electronic devices in the United States would explode. The results would be devastating. Or perhaps they just have tiny cameras in there. Unbelievable intelligence potential. Or perhaps its a nano-weapons grade biospore with enough Pig's Disease to eradicate the world seven times over.
"Take it from me, kids! Take it from me, kids. I'm the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl! I'm the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl! Take it from me kids!" Watching TV again. How many countless hours sitting mindlessly in front of the TV. Receiving its mind control messages. One after another in thirty second pulses. The music is catchy all right. Cute, bouncy, and repeated every five minutes, no matter what channel you're watching. It doesn't matter; they're all in on it. "THE BEST WAY TO SHOW SOMEONE YOU CARE IS TO GIVE THEM A Capsulsgrave PIE." "Take it from me, The Capsulsgrave Pie Girl." "I'm the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl!" "I'm the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl!" "REMEMBER KIDS- Love Equals Pie!" "LOVE EQUALS PIE!" " = π" "I'm the Capsulsgrave Pie Girl!" "Take it from me Kids!" "Love equals pie!"
A giant = π fills the screen for a full second. The attendant announces, "SMOKING." We line up, get our one cigarette. Did you ever see a chimpanzee smoke? It doesn't take any brains at all. But to be fair, don't judge people because of their brain chemistry. If people weren't so busy judging people-
Each orange hair is computer generated glistening as her head bobs up and down in fast motion, slow motion in my mind, keeping up perfectly with the music. She is a singing dancing pie- what a freakin' concept. A singing dancing pie- singing,"Eat me. Eat me." You know they designed the music to brainwash you. You know they know exactly what beat will produce maximum buying behavior in the test subjects-us, we're the test subjects. But I don't remember signing up to be a test subject. You did when you bought that candy bar and didn't have your lawyer read the ingredients first. Then have your doctor read them. Then your psychiatrist. If you still want to eat it after all that . . . you're me.
"Love equals pie! Love equals pie! I'm the Pretty Pie Girl! I'm the Pretty Pie Girl! I'm the Pretty Pie Girl!" Spinning and dancing and singing to the music with her pals, biscuits and tater tots, in complex choreographies, harmonies, and frequencies, as only a computer animated burst of ESB (Electronic Stimulation of the Brain) can. "I'm the Pretty Pie Girl." That voice. "Have a piece of pie!" Sure it's cute. It's so friggin cute and innocent and lovable that is took a team of engineers, lawyers, and marketers four years and seventy million dollars to develop. Just the voice. "I'm the Pretty Pie Girl" It's no accident that the song has that pounding beat at exactly 2.2 beats per second. You have no idea what kind of CIA/Waterboarding went into finding that magic number. I didn't just pull 2.2 beats per second out of my quahahnya Let's call it the 'buy a maximum number of cookies' frequency. For us lay types, let's just say it's a catchy tune. Oh it's catchy, all right.
Then a different voice, a motherly, wise, honest voice interjects, "Mothers will be glad to know that all Capsulsgrave Confections contain zero grams of trans fat per serving."
I say loudly, "You've got to be kidding me."
It's barely noticeable but she says the words 'per serving' just slightly at a lower volume. Could The Great Whore have something to hide? Then she lies again, flat out in your face: "Always have, always will." That dirty lying witch. How can they get away with this legally? Aren't there laws against murder and false advertising?
Oh, the devil appears in a pleasing form. A sweet, little round pie with adorable eyes and smile, shiny little shoes, and a voice like a cute little angel. "I love bisquits. I love tea." It took a whole team of art majors to choreograph this whole scene with the spoons dosidoing with the butter pats, and the teapot playing tuba and the cookies playing trombone, but that's only what they want you to see. They don't want you to see all the research that went into it months before to reach the point where they're ready to hand it over to the creative team. First it goes to R&D which is code for Special Ops. Once the brainwashing program is designed, then they give it to Creative to fill in the blanks and make it into a commercial.
"I'm goin' gaga over these GaGaRoos." GaGaRoos are some bastardtution of chocolate and cheese. "Take it from me. I'm the Pretty Pie Gir-"
"Would you, please, SHUT THE FUGULUG UP?!" I yell so loud it comes out froggy. That's what I get for being mad at the TV. I hurt myself. That disgusting great whore. She found a way to get to me. The thought makes me even madder. I get so mad I scare myself. How can I express such vehement hatredtution in human language?
I'm sorry I'm crazy. Not half as sorry as I am.
Your brain is in a loop of damaging itself. Stop damaging your brain. Brain: stop damaging yourself. I guess there are different kinds of damage. Alcohol might damage it in one way, but anger and sadness in another. Still, damage is damage. But there would be differences. But bad is bad.
Night time at the card table. Two patients against two staff. My partner James has to tell me what to do.
The staff are bragging, "We got this."
"If we win, we get a soda," I suggest.
James, "If we win, we can smoke a cigarette."
The staff aren't allowed to bet, but apparently they are allowed to boast their brains out. "Amateur move. Amateur."
But as the cards would have it, we are on a winning streak. The staff is quieting.
My partner James says, "If we keep winning we could get a Boston."
I ask, "What's a Boston?"
"If we run all the tricks in a row we win the whole thing."
"Come on Boston."
James, "Come on Boston."
We keep chanting, "Come on Boston." We keep winning. "Come on Boston." It's happening. Yes we did it. It's a Boston.
"Boston! . . Boston!. . .Boston!...Boston!" We're both yelling like maniacs.
They offer me a position. I'm on the road to riches. They take me to the work floor. I'm sitting at a long table with five stacks of paper- one white, one blue, one red, one green, and one of envelopes.
"Please take one sheet from each pile fold them together and stuff them in the envelope, then throw the full envelope in the bin next to the table."
It gets to be repetitive real fast. One, two, three, four, fold, stuff, throw. One, two, three, four, fold, stuff, throw. Even though I'm only making five cents per hour, I put one hudred percent enthusiasm into this. This is a brave new career. If I demonstrate superior ability who knows where this could lead? Jostleplume International Industries. Jostleplume Enterprises Unlimited. I maximize my efficiency of motion and race to complete the task in record time.
I throw the hundredth envelope as I announce, "Finished!"
The attendant takes my bin, and leaves me sitting at the clear table. I wait a few minutes. She must be calculating my results. I bet that was a record.
The attendant comes back with a bin. "What we would like you to do is take these envelopes out of the bin. In each one you will find four sheets of paper. Take out the pages and separate them into four piles-one for white, one for blue, one for red, and one for green.
"You mean to tell me that the envelopes I just stuffed you want me to unstuff?"
"Do you think you can do that?"
"No problem." Oh the uselessness of life! I blame the lawyers, and of course the politicians. I blame many. Most of all I blame myself for being such a Big Blamer. The lawyers know all the tricks for stealing and lying and killing. Oh, the unbearable sadness of being.
Finally, the nurse at the window stamps my hand, "SANE." I walk past the guard nurse displaying my badge hand with the letters upside down. She unlocks the door for me. As I take one last look at the ward, I can see the TV mounted near the ceiling playing what else? The Great Whore, "I'm your ookie ookie cookie!" hurting my ears. Son of a ...! They crank the volume on commercials to brainwash people better. Like no one is supposed to notice.
"You're my ookie ookie cookie."
I demonstrate my sanity and good nature by saying, "Have a nice day." No longer a patient. Just a guy walking around a hospital. It feels good. Getting through this maze to the exit is one final test. Walking past a group I zoom in on the one attractive woman. Hello Sunshine. I go through the automatic doors and I'm free. I'm outside. It's a beautiful day. Huzzah. Two security guards fifteen feet away. They're not hassling me. Just keep walking casually. I didn't do anything. Nobody knows I'm a mental patient. I'm not a mental patient. I'm a free citizen.
Someone is playing a radio, there she is again on a passing car radio.
It takes fifty minutes to walk. From now on I'm going to eat one good meal a day. Go to a restaurant, the rest of the time just drink water. Or I could eat two medium sized meals. One at 9am and one at 5pm. Or three. One at 9. One at 12. One at 5. Or better, one at 9. One at 3, and one at 9. Four meals is one every four hours.
I think about my life. It would take a long time to detail every humiliating experience I ever had, and I don't feel like it. There was the time my mom drove me to the party and nobody was there. Years later I realized, nobody likes you. Not showing up is a good outcome. It's my fault for trying to tag along.
Nagging yourself doens't do any good. The only thing that matters is when your sitting there at night with that box of Gummy Hearts. Don't eat the whole thing. Save some for tomorrow. But the thought of those cookies sitting there is burning a hole in the back of my head.
Why don't I do it? I would save money. You like Gummy Hearts. You choose to eat Gummy Hearts.
I don't choose to be fat.
I will eat normal size portions. No seconds. You can eat anything just stick to one portion. Not two, not three. Not five.
Why do I need five hotdogs to be happy? Normal people are happy with one.
Also, it's all about the grains. You want to eat mostly grains, then vegetables, then fruits, then a little meat and cheese, and no sugar.
One thing I am clear on: no hydrogentated oil.
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