I haven’t had a French fry in a very long time.
Don’t get me wrong: I loved them as a kid.
But as soon as I got out of that whole adolescent/teenager food glomping thing, I realized something important.
I didn’t need French fries to feel good about myself.
I could live just fine without them.
And you know what? I have. I have lived a peachy keen life free of all of those greased up fats slathered all over and into a poor pathetic slice of an excuse for a potato.
I don’t need the starches.
Don’t need the grease.
Don’t need the mega trans fats.
I am a survivor of my horrible teen years.
And my life is just right.
My life is not just right anymore.
The man I loved.
The man I thought was 100% the one.
That man…He’s gone and left me.
Even wrote me a Dear Jane letter and stuck it on the fridge.
Couldn’t even give it to me in person.
I don’t know how to handle this.
I don’t know how to process this through my mind and make any sense of it.
I read his letter over and over and over. I can see the words in my head when I look away. I can see the curve of his letters. The pin-prick perfection of his punctuation marks.
I recite it when I take a shower and before I go to sleep.
No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t make sense.
His words are empty and useless to me. They’re just scrawls of ink on paper and I can’t make sense of them.
I need to get out of the house.
I need to get something to eat.
I need something to uplift my crushed down spirit.
I need what I haven’t had in such a long time.
They will make the pain dissipate.
I will feel better.
I need the carbs and the starches.
I need the saturated trans fats.
I need to know that everything will be fine with salt and ketchup all over it.
I’m going to stop at the first fast food place I see and order the largest size of French fries.
And I know.
Everything will be all right.