Eat Your Heart Out

My wireless keyboard sits perched atop my oddly distended belly, my chubby fingers barely able to type. I recline backward to give my writhing torso room to suffer, shudder, and belch. Moans emanate from various locations. Tracking the gurgles, I discover my intestinal track runs counter-clockwise. Call Ismael, 'cause you've found the White Whale. Why did I do it? Why, why, whine?

Stupid candy. Never again. Well at least not until it's on sale. Or maybe when the Easter candy comes out, which should be, at the rate we push holiday selling, in just a few minutes.

• I love you - here's a huge wad of sugar. If you're nice to me, I have Tums.
• I love you - I'm proving it by fattening you up so no one else will want you.
• I love you - please take this so I don't eat it and get sick.

Reading and eating are a painful combination. That's why I took up writing. It's much harder to stuff yourself when you're typing. If you're just reading, in the space of 10 minutes you can unknowingly consume 83 "Be Mine," "For You," "U R Cute," and "So Fine" pieces of pezzie poison.

My dear, darling, departed, passive-aggressive Nana used to bake for us grandkids. Every damn day. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? No. No. No. It was like the movie "Groundhog Day," only with bundt cakes. We'd come home from school, the witching hour for kiddie apetites, and she'd appear with a big lump of dry cake. She'd parade right past my mother, who would be preparing dinner, sometimes with sharp kitchen utensils. "Have some cake," Nana would say, which is Gaelic for "If you love me and want me to live, you'll eat this. Now." Her spirit lives on in these heart-shaped little pieces of turmoil.

For some unknown reason, the air here in my office has grown increasingly toxic. I have to leave now, or risk the gases reaching the pilot light on the stove. Save yourselves!