Under-Medicated & Over-Fed

I'm in Portland for the weekend, and I'm looking for somewhere to eat. When I travel, I lose all ability to feed myself on any regular basis, so it has been approximately 32.5 hours since my last meal. I have finally discerned my need to eat after barely refraining from mugging a stranger for her cookies. I am also slightly unhinged, and have a modicum of despair regarding my future as a human being.

I find a non-descript coffee shop and stagger inside clutching my stomach with a distinctly deranged look in my eyes. I fail to notice the 7 foot berth of space other patrons warily grant me. I order a turkey sandwich from a cashier who is certainly wondering whether or not this would be an appropriate time to push the panic button.
I contemplate telling him my life story.
I think he knows.
I slink away to a table in the corner, furtively eyeing the sugar packets with lascivious intentions.

I tell myself I will eat on a more regular basis, which means I don't need to have dessert. No need to make myself sick. I mutter under my breath, waiting for my sandwich with the same level of patience displayed by a hungry orca whale.

One meal, I tell myself, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just one rum ball...and then ends the night with no pants and a gaping wound trying to remember his own name.

Only the sandwich. And maybe a few bites of the potato salad, because you know, it is Portland and everything’s in season and there must be some vitamins in there I'm sorely lacking. Don’t want to get the scurvy.

And as I’m salivating over the sandwich, and planning it's timely demise, I’m overwhelmed by the need for a hazelnut brownie. Because I'm on vacation and it’s a vacation brownie, and I'm all alone in a foreign state, and hazlenuts grow in Oregon, you all. It’s not a shot of whisky or a puff of a Marlboro, but everyone knows empty calories take away the empty feelings. And, as far as I'm concerned, feelings are a far greater threat to humanity than that osama fellow (who, by the way, shares a birthday with one of my best friends. Coincidence? I think not).

And as I open the pandora's box of baked goods, I feel the panic setting in. The inevitable neurotic mania has begun, which sounds a little like this:
"Brownie!"
"Should I move to this city?"
"Quiet. Brownie. Now."
"Am I going to die alone? What is a Associate's degree and do I need one? Where are my socks? What am I going to do with my life? my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches".
"Bbbbbbrrrrooooowwwwwwnnnniiiieeeeeeeee"

And that’s where a giant baked good claims victory over my psyche with the mollifying prozac power of chocolate. And, of course, I eat 4.

Moral of the story: Eat a fucking meal, for godssake.