Lately I’ve been eating like 8 meals a day. Not 8 Julian Michaels meals mind you (you know: 8 satisfying, healthy, small meals, to keep your blood sugar stable and you in a perpetual state of unhungry), more like Dom DeLuise 8 meals; a bombardment of heart stopping, panic-attack inducing, binge eating without the relief or satisfaction of a purge- unless accidental/involuntary- which is promptly met with frustration at the thought of refilling the insatiable chasm of my appetite. I’ve even tried watching continuous loops of snuff films on all five of my LCD screens in A Clockwork Orange effort to curb my hunger, all to zero effect. I guess I have to just come to terms with what is really at play: I’m giving up. Balding, forty, on the brink of poverty, and an inability to ejaculate more than 5 millimeters has all left me a shell of the man I formerly was. I play hockey like I’m eighty and weave uncontrollably while I drive. I stain my underwear and couldn’t get a girl to do a double-take unless I shout obscenities in her general direction. Sure there are small semblances of upsides to my midlife crisis: excessive marijuana consumption, copious amounts of booze and lack of desire to masturbate. But these tiny pleasures are mere distractions to my final conclusion: never mind,I forgot the ending.
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