When both my parents were young they were told they didn’t eat enough. This made them feel insecure about their inability to finish their food. Thusly, my inability to indifference toward fully cleaning my own plate was met with unwavering understanding. That combined with my forced vegetarianism has probably contributed to my 124 lb. frame now.

I’m not blaming them. I’ll move along quickly to the part where I forgive them for making me into the comedic being wearing women’s clothes that I am today as to not redundisize.

I ate 4 donuts on the way to dinner today. This proves two things: Donuts are delicious and I can eat like a motherfucker when I enjoy food. I’ve also been full after three bites of cauliflower meatloaf. My parents trained me to eat how much I wanted of what I wanted. This translates over to my life (as food is simply a parable for life) and my parents have also trained me to live life by doing what I wanted at a specific moment. Food is a fleeting enjoyment. Since I treated food as something that I could eat or not eat without consequence, I began to treat life in the same way – as a series of fleeting inconsequential moments.

That’s not to say I don’t feel guilt or remorse or trepidation. Far from it. Those might be the only three things I feel (besides the flat shaft of my penis as I type with my left hand). I just don’t give in to those feelings. Those feelings effect purely my feelings as opposed to determining my actions. Just as my desire to not finish my garden burger led to me not finishing my garden burger, my desires to spit or pee on the sidewalk lead to me expelling my internal liquids on the New York City streets.

Maybe that’s why I feel guilty all the time. Because I don’t know how to censor my actions for the greater good of my life. Fuck you mom and dad. Why’d you have to make me a terrible human being.