The second my apartment door closes behind me, I dive into the first cupcake. I have to make sure you understand this: the second, I mean the literal second the door hits that latch, I tear the pink box apart. I shred and rip and open until it no longer resembles a box. Pink cardboard parts litter the floor. I don’t even make it to the kitchen counter before the first cupcake is gone, because it’s chocolate peanut butter, perfect, and divine. I’m happy; so so happy, but they really should make these cupcakes bigger, which is why I decide to eat the 2nd one immediately—chocolate with caramel filling—because I don’t want the happy to end, but then halfway through the 2nd one, I realize that it’s maybe—maybe—a little too rich and I want to keep eating it, believe me, I do, but my body is threatening to revolt against the happy, so my brain takes over, and since my brain isn’t ready to stop feeding the beast, I eat the lemon one and then immediately miss the chocolate high, I miss it bad, so I finish the chocolate with caramel filling and by the time I succumb to the chocolate, I figure that I’ve already eaten three cupcakes, what harm would one more do, and besides it’s coconut, and my body is going to die without coconut.
Four cupcakes later.
Now not only am I a lonely person who hates her job, I’m a lonely person who hates her job who is also fat and can’t stop eating. I know that food is fuel. Food is not a friend. But let’s be honest, food fires up dopamine and food is fulfilling and food is pretty much all I got goin’ for me right now, so food it is.