(thought I’d stop being so mopey all the time on this blog)
You know those 150g bags of crisps you can buy? Those sharing-sized bags of Doritos that are cheaper if you get, like, seventeen at once, or the Cracker Crisps that come in 45,402 different flavours which you have to buy, so you end up taking out a mortgage to do your weekly snack shop? Yeah, those ones are gonna kill me.
A lot of this is my fault, as I’ve spent the last year eating such things in place of real food, and I have developed quite a, if you’ll excuse the idiom, taste for them; I like the simplicity of eating them out of a bag, I like the variety of flavours, I like the consistency of carb content that means I don’t have to do any complex maths to cover them when transitioning from one brand to another. They’re also relatively cheap and are one of few flavoursome things I can eat at the moment (for reasons I won’t be disclosing on the blog for a little while yet).
But I’m not totally to blame; I still have the metabolism of a sixteen year-old, and despite my best efforts to live off two meals a day and spend my time not stuffing my face, it’s very difficult when my body is still trying to harvest all the available nutrients in a fifteen-mile radius like a particularly greedy plant with a rather spectacularly wide root system. Or a really fat motherfrakker with a lot of money and a lot of free time.
Also, those bags are the perfect size for what I call a half-meal, a unit of food somewhere between a snack and a meal that cannot alone sustain a person for a whole day, but are a very nice solution for when it’s not time for your meal of the day, but are hungry. Normally, I’ll have two such half-meals, and one full meal, a day; these crisps are apparently the perfect size for one to base one’s entire dining structure around.
Considering the fact that such crisps aren’t really that healthy, that title there isn’t comedic hyperbole, nor is it only a half-baked reference to this particularly wonderful Simpsons comic (if it does poke fun at mental disabilities a bit too much for nineteen-year-old James’ liking). I’ll probably end up dead, with a packet of chilli Cracker Crisps in my hands, like the poor Donutted bastards of that comic. And when you find me there, don’t make a joke about it being ironic that I was diabetic; I’ll haunt the shit out of you.