27 October 2004
     I sit down with longing in my eyes as I stare at a chunk of top-notch “American Beauty” birthday cake:  two layers of sweet, sweet chocolate with a fudgy sugar-loaded icing.  Enough for a chocolategasm.  Feeling an unexplainable pressure deep in my chest, I slowly lower my fork for the first bite.  Delicious.  I roll the fudge around in my mouth, French-kissing it until it’s dissolved.  Another bite and it’s the spongy moist cake.  Ecstasy.  I eat faster and faster, until there’s no time left between bites, no air to shorten the pleasure or delay the sensation.  Shoveling the last bite into my mouth, I feel full.    Stomach, you know what to do.
     I turn to my side, eye my strategically placed blue popcorn bowl, and heave up the cake in a matter of seconds.
     I feel so much better now.
     It came out smoothly—I knew it would.  Soft things are always easy.  The bowl now is half full, quite a feat if I do say so myself.  The brown gooey soup on the top is all that’s left of American Beauty now.  What a wasted life you had, but you served your purpose.  Now I can take you and the rest of lunch to the bathroom (as long as nobody’s around) and then flush you into your watery grave.  While you descend down to Davey Jones’ Locker, I hum a little dirge, whisper a little prayer, and that’s the end of you.  Poor thing, you deserved better.
     I was out the bowl, masking the scent of vomit with lavender soap, and let it dry innocently on the top rack above the sink.  No one will know what you carried.  They’ll think it was popcorn, like the label printed in white letters designates:  Act II, WB.
     Actually, popcorn is also easy to bring up.  It’s just denser, and the kernels are prone to scraping the throat of wedging themselves between the teeth.  Not nearly as satisfying as the cocoa-cocaine I seem to be addicted to.  And I’m supposed to be vegan.  Tsk, tsk.  The cows and chickens suffered greatly to make that cake, you unethical pig, you.  Why don’t you go stuff your face with a Big Mac while you’re at it?  Hell, if you end up feeling guilty, you’ll know what to do.