It’s a strong statement to start a post off with. But I’m going to do it anyway, because it’s been nagging on my brain.
I don’t like food.
Or at least, I don’t like it anymore. I realized it a few nights ago. Flatmate and his friends were off to the cinema, so I made myself comfortable. I wanted to make something lovely for me, to soothe the senses. Gathering the microwave rice and the jar of korma sauce, I realized I’d forgotten something crucial.
I had bloody forgotten chicken for my chicken korma. I ended up substituting it with slices of ham. Needless to say, it was disgusting. It was the single most depressing plate of food I had ever eaten. And still, I nearly finished it. Because I was fucking hungry.
Every bite made me gag.
As I sit here writing this post, I’ve come to the realization that I’ve only enjoyed one good meal this week. And that was after I came back from my volunteering job. I took myself out for a McDonalds and my god, did I ever love it.
It isn’t the healthy option. It isn’t the same as eating a fresh salad, or biting into a juicy, sweet apple. But my word, did I ever enjoy it. I feasted on spiced potato wedges and sour cream dip. Because it was what my body needed.
I am disgusted with how I’m treating my body.
And it has nothing to do with losing weight. Nothing to do with my fabulous curves or anything like that. No. It has everything to do with what I’m feeding myself.
Somewhere in my meshugge mind, the click was made that I would pay less on my weekly groceries if I bought ready meals for a week. Which is of course bullshit. Not only do they come out more expensive in the end, they taste like absolute shit too.
I can’t deal with ready meals anymore. I want to have the satisfaction of making my own mash, instead of twitching my thumbs, waiting for it to come out of the microwave. I want to craft a lovely peppercorn sauce that actually tastes like the peppercorn sauce I remember from home.
And most of all, I really want a steak.
It’s all that’s been on my mind. It doesn’t even have to be steak. I just want to make a huge rack of something and watch as it comes out of the oven, roasted to perfection.
And I truly hate myself for denying my body the pleasure of good and healthy food. I hate myself for spending my cash on books that I’m not sure I’ll even read. On clothes that don’t properly fit. On things that I don’t even need.
I want to enjoy food again. I want to learn how to eat veg and eat more fruit. I want to be a good cook!
I want. I want. I want.
I want to cut my Iceland Loyalty Card in tiny pieces and never set food in there again. Because I’ve had enough of ready meals. I’ve had enough of bumping against a rack of fucking John West tuna chunk. I’ve had enough of shit food!
Consider this my resignation.
I quit shit food.
Man alive, that felt good to get out.