I’ve been eating–no, DEVOURING–more food than usual in the past few weeks. I’m not used to eating too much. I hate the feeling of being bloated, as well as the thought that these things are plotting to clog what shouldn’t be clogged, or causing occult mutations that will one day kill me. In relation to this, I hate the word crave. Craving for something, in my twisted and totally mistaken view, is like admitting to an embarrassing weakness, or recognizing the dastardly summons of the taste buds or the flesh. I am totally blaming my Catholic upbringing for this, and other guilt-related neuroses.
I recently told Namtab Pots that I have been thinking of eating cake. I saw this nice looking chocolate cake studded with shredded almonds in Starbucks, and although Starbucks is not really the best place to get cakes, I’ve been thinking about that particular cake for days. Even as I was slurping my tall non-fat iced latte with 1 sachet of Splenda I was imagining that I was stuffing my face with cake.
“Incidentally,” Namtab Pots said, “Paul and I are getting cake this afternoon. From Starbucks. Life is short. We might die tomorrow.” Namtab Pots is the ideal enabler. He will not only tell you to do something, he will do it himself. Over ten years ago after hunting for toys in a mall in Alabang he bought an entire Red Ribbon Peanut Butter Mousse cake, and ate the entire thing. His latest blood chemistries are all normal.
“We are all fucked. We are living in hell. We will die very soon. Eat that fucking cake,” he admonished.
True. Very true. But what if we don’t die? We’ll keep on getting all hedonistic, hyperglycemic, and dyslipidemic, with fatty liver on the side– only to not die but live with the consequences? But it’s just one cake, and it’s not like I will even eat the whole damn slice. Ok. I submit. Tomorrow I will get that cake. And here I am trivializing Arthur and Ben’s relationship problems. How dare.