Greetings from the
Cheesecake Cafe depths of my depravity.
I know I am on my way here before I am even coming. Decisions are made as though my body has been taken over by alien forces and I am propelled towards food like a moth to the flame that will, undoubtedly, kill it.
It is sinister. I sit in the studio, bereft, and as the girls whirl and twirl before me, I see dancing sweet potato fries and carrot cake. Orange. The theme of tonight is orange. My soul is on fire burning from the inside out. It sizzles like fat in a frying pan.
There is no one to take me out on this frigid, Friday night. I am 31 and perpetually single. No takers to fulfill the dream of husband, children and various assorted pets in a big house in Africa.
No matter. I take myself out for another bout of
dinner soul destroying. I do not look like I am alright. I am sure that I have that demented, half-crazed glint in my eyes when I spy cheesecake. My sweat pants are tucked into snow-ravaged boots and my hair (too thin from too many years of malnutrition and hypothyroid) is greasy and limp. Better days have seen me. Today is not one of them.
“Table for how many?” the hostess asks.
One fat, sad, lonely, excuse for a freak. I say it without venom: It is merely an observation of the reality of my wasted existence.
I munch my way through my disappointment, avoiding another evening in my empty apartment where my cats plead with me to find my sanity. They think it is there sitting on the couch with them. I know it sitting on Sunset Rock in the Savé Valley but I was 17 then. Too much water has flowed down the Zambezi since that point. There is no turning back even though going back might be possible and at this juncture, my only means of survival.
After I am fed, stuffed full and vomitus, I long only to lie down under the table. I want a tummy full of little, blue, ex-lax pills to soothe me to sleep. I could wrap my shame and loathing around me, blanketing myself in them and drifting off into oblivion.
It has been achieved once more through whatever means necessary.