I get proper, stark-raving mad, full-blown, near-dementia case of wanting to eat something.
When I was pregnant with Charlie, I would say things like 'I would really like a big, fat, juicy burger, dripping with burger relish.' and people would say 'Oh, the baby is craving, eh?' Eh? No. I want it. Not the baby. It was not what my body suddenly needed since I was with child. It was because I just fucking want a burger, okay?
Even now, in the middle of Winter when I pass by the freezer sections in Budgens, I would say I wanted a massive tub of Strawberry flavoured ice-cream. Not because pregnancy had meddled with common sense being you don't have ice cream in Winter. It is just because I just fucking want ice cream. And I am not pregnant. If ever I were to fucking ask for bloody Marmite and peanut butter sandwich then yes, demand me to piss on a stick. Until then, I just want to eat something.
I was sat in bed last night, describing to Jaz, my vegetarian partner, how fat, juicy and oily I want my roast chicken to be. Fucking rude, I know. Well out of order, but if I can't share my deepest, darkest desires with the man who shags my brain out then who can I share them with? He didn't ask me if I was pregnant. He had long accepted that I just bloody love my food and if my occupying a good deal of the bed with my massive arse does not already make it obvious, then I don't know what will.
I am just a fucking porker. I want my chicken. Why lie? Why sugar-coat the truth with lies like 'My body needs the protein'. Why? I thought we are all supposed to be true to ourselves? Your body just needed for your mouth to munch on some crispy, roasted chicken skin.
Why is it that when I am stuffing my face with a mountain of lush, fresh, crispy salad people ask me if I am on a diet? You fucking idiots can ask me such a question that would be deemed insulting in some cultures but when I answered with 'No, I am just eating me greens because I am constipated. I just needed something to make me shit soft so that it'll stop ripping me bum in tatters.' you recoiled in disgust and said 'Too much information, Love'. Oh, so the details of my mythical diet was just the right amount of information then? You don't need the entire details of my bowel movements then? Why are trying to bring me down when I am performing the sacred act of Having My Dinner?
That's how I get when it comes to chocolate. There are things I have done that I am not particularly proud of. Once, when the craving was strong, I stole chocolate from a friend. Something comes over me that I can't explain. All I know is that body NEEDS chocolate.
ReplyDeleteAhahaha ye gods. I have actually walked past Sunday Roast leftovers in the kitchen and dove straight into the chicken that people have left on their plates. Very low of me but IT IS CHICKEN!
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