I’m starving. I brought lunch with me and even a bit of breakfast, but I’m starving and I know why.
I’m starving because I need something.
Nutritional scientists try to tell me what I need, but my body tells me what I need. The exact same is true with my brain. Scientists with a motive tell me I don’t need what my body tells me it wants. You CAN get enough protein and other nutrients without meat. You CAN fool your body into thinking it’s full, some of the time. I’m not good at self deceiving, and I’m aware of many specific foods you CAN eat more of to get a given nutrient. I’m not craving or eating rocks and dirt and sand. Well, I’m not eating much sand. They put in my corn chips and other things and tell me it’s “silicon dioxide.” I’m not an idiot; (shut up!) I read food labels. I’m also not craving bugs, but some genius decided there wasn’t enough red in my yogurt so they ground up a red bug and threw that in there. Hooray for nutrition.
There are times when my body is very specific to tell my brain what it wants. Weird? Maybe, (shut UP!) but I know when I need salt, a rare condition in the modern era when food scientists and manufacturers add salt to EVERYTHING. Except salt. If you get salt, it might have sugar in it, and it might have something to make it not stick to itself if you forget not to get it wet or leave it in the package too long, and it might have a tiny dose of a little something extra the food scientists forgot to tell us about, or it was too small for them to bother letting us know. In the modern, mechanized, stainless-steel era, I don’t think I need sand in my corn chips, and I don’t think I need sugar in my salt, and I know damn well I don’t need fucking BUGS in my strawberry and cherry yogurt. When I need salt, my head feels funky and I might get irritable. (SHUT UP! I KNOW, DAMN IT!!) Um, more irritable than normal. But what’s not to get pissed off about? Food Scientist: “Oh hey, here, have some bugs, you won’t even notice.” Me: “That’s gross. ICK-kkcxxcoff cough. Bleah.” Food Scientist: “While you’re at it, have some salt, with a side of high blood pressure and a slightly higher risk of diabetes.” Me: Fuck you.
I know people who have allergies to weird things- bananas. artificial sweeteners. monosodium glutamate (but it makes our food taste so good! MMM, Chemicals!). And the food labeling industry, thank GOD for that, makes manufacturers tell us if there are nuts or wheat or dairy or things that a lot of people are allergic to. But they don’t make manufacturers CLEARLY state what the hell they’re putting in the food, as long as they say there’s something in there. MSG, they literally are trying to hide that they’re putting that shit in our food. They used to just call it monosodium glutamate. Then they switched to MSG. Now they can call it glutamic acid, food starch, yeast extract, or a host of other names that sound harmless. But to someone allergic, that’s extremely dangerous deception.
I know, it “only affects a very small portion of the population.” But why are you, food ingredient obfuscator, really trying to kill my sister, and MRS M, for fucks sake? Fucking ass hole, if I lose either one and meet you I will strangle you with my bare hands and make it look like you suicided, you piece of shit. Actually, my sister is the one who isolated her allergy to MSG. Mrs M has some thing she’s sensitive to that we’ve only encountered in restaurant food. Both keep benadryl and an epi-pen handy, because their epi-sodes seem to be worse each time. There are other products out there, but not readily available because of certain “business practices” of the Epi-pen manufacturer. For the Epi-pen, the gouger can take a $25 actual expense, counting labor, parts, assembly and shipping, and a modest profit, and charge people $300 for a dose, and they come in a two pack Mrs M: My lips are tingling. Allergy attack! (increasingly quieter whisper: ) My throat is tighten… hhelp- hhel- hh- ckkkk!! Heather Bresh: Want to live? That’ll be $300 please! Cha CHING! Me: FUCK YOU, you cold, heartless bitch! Insurance: We only cover a small part of that. Me: FUCK YOU TWICE, you fucking ass holes, I pay more than that in health insurance premiums, because it’s the law. Congress (if you can imagine it, use Ben Stein’s voice, Buehler? Buehler?) : well, insurance IS the law, Mr Mumple, so good luck… And maybe try to be a little nicer, Ms Bresh, or we may revisit this issue at some futureblahblahblahblahblah.
Yeah we should do a class action lawsuit, anyone whose insurance premiums cover nothing for services that cost more than people can afford based on their incomes who have someone actually die because of money and not being able to drive to the hospital er fast enough, or call themselves an ambulance, with no oxygen for their brains. It’s what they’re counting on- it’s hard to sue when you’re dead from no oxygen reaching your brain. No oxygen reaches the brains of congress persons, because they’re talking it all away and not helping the constituency. They need to shut up and reduce their own carbon footprint. Talking makes greenhouse gases, you asses! (bonus, POETRY!!)
Wait, rambling again, I was supposed to talk about what my body needs. I’m starving. I’m starving because I’m not getting something I need. This is not just true of my cravings for lack of protein, it’s true of other things in my life. Do NOT try to tell me I need more fiber to feel more full. I am more faithful than Old Faithful in my regularity, and that, readers, is gross AND proof that I eat enough oats and oatmeal and shredded wheat and barley and lentils and rice and beans and other things that make you poop. I’m starving, my body wants something else, not just fiber. I strive to eat healthy foods and I do enjoy vegetables and fruit. I get to a point where I’m bored with the minimal, and occasionally I crave a little something extra.
The extra my body most frequently wants, is meat. For all my vegetable consumption, as good as that is, and for all my boiled chicken, there’s better and my body sometimes craves it. Barbecued ribs (beef or pork), a good ribeye steak, fried chicken, lamb, goat, pork chops, fucking SQUIRREL, anything, something, made of M.E.A.T. Sorry all you animal lovers. And, sorry, most of you fast food dealers are in league with “food scientists,” and your “all-beef” burgers taste like a little low-grade beef, a little salt (and sugar probably) and a fucking ton of chemistry I don’t want. A few too many restaurants, too. And now there’s “genetically modified” foods with implications we aren’t aware of yet. Shit. Should this tomato ketchup be purple and glow in the dark?
Scientists have recently announced that depression causes increased activity in certain areas of human brains and may be caused by a lack of reward. No shit, Sherlock, if I work my ass off for nothing, it’s fucking depressing. If I clean house hoping for sex and she’s too tired, or if I do even more extra things hoping for even more extra things and I get rejected, it’s fucking depressing. If I work my ass off for 20+ years and do a damned good job at doing my job, well enough to train other people or actually lead a team, and find out that I’m making what kids who just walked in off the street start at, and realize I’m still poor and I can never retire, it’s fucking depressing. I need rewards to not be depressed. I need enough money to feel valued and appreciated by my employer.
I need the money I pay for insurance to be enough to actually help me when I need help. Call me idealistic, but I believe I shouldn’t have to take out a loan (which probably gets turned down, by the way) to afford auto repairs just to keep my old crappy car running, or to get reasonable fucking dental care of reasonable quality, or a blood test. A chiropractor might be nice for those occasions, once in a blue moon, when my back twists itself in an “alternative” direction.
It’d be a nice reward if my work could pay me enough to afford to keep on living, and maybe enough so my kids could go to college without all of us, student and parent, going into major debt. Fortunately they’re brilliant and not as scarred by life yet, so they may get scholarships. It’s my hope, anyway. I know I don’t want to work until I’m 120 to pay off the debts, and finally retire. Unless I get another healthy and wealthy 40 years and then die at 160, that’ll be fine. But no, there’s no “reward,” so I’m depressed.
I don’t need a fucking “scientist” to tell me that I’m depressed, nor to tell me why. I know damn well why. I also don’t need a doctor or a laboratory to tell me I need vitamin D which does help with depression, or that my “bad” cholesterol has gone down since I’ve lost weight since I’m walking more. I have to, or my dog will shit in my house, because my kids, who begged for a dog and promised to take care of it, won’t. It’s fine. The dog is just like me, so he’s mine. He and I both need someone who cares about us, so we’ve got each other.
I would also feel rewarded if my education resulted in me being able to find a job in my field of training, but I couldn’t with my bachelors, and I couldn’t with my masters, and my schools didn’t help me with job placement, so here I am, writing when I can, when I feel ambitious and inspired enough, when I’m not bogged down with everything else that complicates and takes more time out of life. It will please you to know, that under a nom de plume (how else would I do it) I am writing a book that corresponds to my education, so we’ll see if I can finish that and earn some money. Or piss some people off, because that’ll be funny and raise publicity and maybe sell a few extra books. It’s not THAT controversial, and I won’t tell you anything except if and when I finish it. Sorry, the one that corresponds to my education is not an entertaining novel. It reads like a weird sort of textbook so far. I’m trying to make it personalized and friendly, but it is a scholarly venture, so sorry in advance.
It would be nice if that took off and went crazy and made me a million or so dollars. That would be rewarding, and I assure you, I’d be less depressed. All you people who say money can’t buy happiness are investing it in the wrong place(s). If your money is making you depressed, send some of it to my dentist, my doctor, and my chiropractor. And if you have even more of that depressing money, send some to my butcher.
If you don’t have enough, I hope you can stretch it far enough. And I don’t know if it’s any reward for you, but I think you bring something good to the world. Keep bringing it. I hope you have a happy Friday, and figure out a way to reward yourself this weekend.