Miami Nights

Don't worry. I will not mention the economy.

I have had an eating disorder for the past few weeks. I'm either pregnant or playing host to a family of tapeworms, because I am uncontrollably hungry. My jewbaby friends are all fasting like stupidas because of Yom Kippur. (They're either celebrating or mourning: it can be hard to tell these days.) I, on the other hand, am on a fucking eating binge. I can't stop. I feel like Cartman only mixed with more liquor and eternally cigarette-stinking clothes.

This disgusting pattern of overconsumption started a few weeks ago. For some reason I spontaneously began to lust for chicken wings. I've always kind of liked them, treated them as something to eat if they happen to be around, like spinach dip and Xanax. Next thing I know I was placing an (improbably expensive) order with Papa Johns for three boxes of them. Thirty minutes later I was satiated, my hunger replaced by self hatred and shame, my counter overflowing with boxes of picked-bare filthy chicken bones, Molly (my dog) in a trembling panic about how to get at them. This continued for the next few days, dinging my bank account at $30 intervals, until I switched to the hot dogs.

Him: the hot dog vendor outside of the Dade County Schools Building on NE 2nd and 15th Street. A recent discovery of mine. He's quite a gentleman. He is my best friend. He goes to endless lengths to ensure that your heart attack-inducing sausage is prepared to your liking. He has many trays active at once on his apparatus. He even has Parmesan cheese. Who the hell puts Parmesan cheese on a hot dog? I'm not sure, but we would never hear about it anyway: those people are surely dead. I am lucky to have lasted long enough to tell you about it in the third person, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck.

Sometimes I have fantasies at night. Powerful, overwhelming ones. Greased trays of barely-cooked lard sliding down endless mechanical pathways. Legions of slaughtered animals, some still naying and baying at the moon and cursing their fate, like Guernica in the butcher shop. Landscapes of doughnuts and sweets. Biscuits, made from grease and dipped in it.

I must be stopped. This situation cannot stand. I am going to drown my tapeworms in pure alcohol. Read on for this fat ass's suggestions for the weekend. :(