I think I shall vomit now.

There is a skill level not attainable by everyone when it comes to the art of over-eating. I still believe my younger brother holds that title - as a growing teenage boy, I once saw him consume 15+ pieces of meat at a Brazilian steakhouse - the kind where you pay a flat entree fee and the animal products are unlimited. Even as we all sat groaning, holding onto our rotund food babies for dear life, he was searching for the next waiter who'd walk by with yet another tasty morsel.
It was grotesque, but nonetheless fascinating. The same sort of thing you feel watching Joey Chestnut decimate an entire farm's worth of hot dogs at those annual Nathan's competition. The same reason why we can't look away from the climactic horror scene in the latest Halloween franchise film.

I'm writing from experience, clearly; not just the observance of over-eating but the feeling of it within myself. Take right now, for existence. After three days of truly successful, careful and healthy portioning, combined with good exercise regimes including both cardio and weights, I came in to work today and made mistakes. BIG mistakes.

My first was to nibble on the chocolate chip cookie bars brought in by a woman who knows her shit when it comes to baking. They were still gooey - half-cooked and warm - sopping with chocolate and whispering quietly... "I'm going straight to your ass, baby."
Then there was lunch. The office brings in donated lunches and charges 5 dollars which goes to charity - cash or check accepted with pleasure and thanks. I paid with check... and ate KFC. Yes, it was the grilled chicken, and I skipped the coleslaw because I find that stuff generally repulsive, but it all still adds up to one cookie bar, 1 grilled chicken breast, 1 grilled chicken leg, a small mound of mashed potatoes and gravy and... a biscuit.

I think I shall die shortly.

There is no pleasure involved here. I ate it all like a prison inmate given his last meal - quickly, without tasting, ignoring the implications of what was going down the gullet. My unthinking, irresponsible face. And for the past half hour, I have only been naseous. I have promised myself a walk when I get home, a simple salad for dinner to make up for today's foolish choices. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves? If there was never any pleasure associated with the experience, then WHY DID I DO IT?

Chubby people should have an insurance allotment for overeating therapy. Food is pain, man.