The other day, as opposed to just the day, I ventured out on a school night, and found myself in a reclining sofa sitting next to my elusive cousin in a dimly lit gold-class cinema.
Being the first-world, gold-class snob that I was raised to believe that I would never be, I ordered a heap of gold-class food in the belief that I would get ripped off. Over-ordering was be the answer to under-providing.
Who knew that the amount of food you recieve is proportianate to the amount of food you order.
After a main course of lots of fried food and a weird stinky blue cheese dip, dessert sundaes arrived, as promised, "half an hour after the main course, please". They were the size of my stomach. They were the size of two of my stomachs, if you ripped them open and placed them side by side, stretching them so that they covered as much surface area as possible, like if their stomachy life depended on it they could stretch to cover the universe in dark coverings of never-sun and stomach acid.
They were big.
And we ordered two of them.
And I sat in the dark cinema, trying to spoon moist chocolate brownies and vanilla bean ice cream and candied walnuts and chocolatey choclate ice cream and the richest fudge sauce I've ever tasted into my mouth and down into a stomach already bloated with sweet potatoe fries and buffalo wings.
And my mouth said no.
It was strange.
So strange! I've never said no to food!
I was always disappointed when people said they were too sick to eat something; I've always assumed they had tiny stomachs or were cowards. (Being craven is a big thing in Spartan society okay).
But I felt sick halway through the sundae. I felt sick two-thirds through the sundae. By the end of the sundae, I stopped feeling things.
Just finish it!
Never!
Just do it!
It's too much!
You're a wuss!
Your mother would be disappointed!
By the time I left the cinema, I left a slice of brownie and two wafer sticks floating in shallow pool of melted chocolate mess. I left with my head down and ashamed, walking quickly so that the waiters who cleared the plate wouldn't look over and hiss at me and shoot at me shame rays through their sharp red eyes. But no waiters came, and I left the cinema with a mournful look and raised eyebrows, and I whispered to the sundae,
I'll come back for you.
Should I feel bad for leaving uneaten food?
Doesn't the argument go that since the food is already dead, it's okay to waste it? Because it's already dead? Why not waste some more!
The foods for thoughts never left my mind; even after a few days, it sat, heavy, lonely, annoying, in my mind.
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