I love food. It looks so beautiful. It smells fantastic. It tastes like orgasms. It fills me, fuels me, makes me smile. I look at it like I look at sexy women. It gives me something to do. It distracts me. Loves me. It doesn’t argue. It agrees with every word I say. It doesn’t make me work for its love. It fills the silence. It wakes me when I need to be awake, it makes me sleepy when I’m tired. I love food.
I hate food. It dictates my day. It obsesses my mind. It rules me. It draws out my self-hate. It enables me. It seduces me. It overrides every sensible, healthful, mindful thought I ever have. It derails my days, lengthens my nights, disrupts my sleep. It kills me, minute by minute, day by day, year by year. It stays an instant then abandons me. It teases and never satisfies. I hate food.