Discomfort Food

I toodled at twenty m.p.h. to the grocery store today, on a new tiny pill that’s supposed to diminish some of the anxiety I’ve been experiencing lately—an anxiety which, now that I think of it, may have pervaded my existence for, oh—let me get my calculator out, hang on: tap, tap, plus tap, uh-huh—forever? Does “forever” sound right, all ye who love me? I just started this new regime, and immediately plugged my coffee grinder into my computer. Still, when I got to the grocery store, I managed to remember what I needed: milk, yogurt, apples. “Don’t think negative or sad thoughts,” I told myself (something the lovely pill-giving doctor I saw yesterday advised me to do) as I perused the aisles of the IGA, passing what seemed like row upon row of dead animals and food for poor, fat people. I rolled by the dog food aisle and averted my eyes, but too late: Oh, my God, there is a massive, dog-sized hole in my life. Then suddenly I realized I was in a grocery store with food: Fuck! All Julie and I did for seven years together was eat, and talk while we ate, and laugh.

Look! (those are some kind of bread-and-butter spectacles, I believe):

Do meds have nutrients? I don’t think I can go shopping for a while. Anyway, clearly they’re not working.


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