When I have depression, I will often find myself in the drive-through at Burger King.
Two Double Whopper meals, go large, and a small Diet Coke.
I think the look on my face when I pick up my food is why they often give me ten to twelve ketchup packets. A look of hunger and despair.
I park quickly and get the ketchup flowing. I might stick six French fries in my mouth, chew a couple times, then down the hatch. After this massacre, I might find a piece of pickle sitting on top of my gear shift knob. I consider this a clean surface, so I’ll pick it up and eat it.
Once after a long depression, I got on the scale, and it spun and spun, and then it said,
“One at a time, please.”
My girlfriend said, “I don’t want to do your laundry anymore.”
“Why?” I asked.
She said that one pair of my pants was a whole load.
We split up.
The drive-through window girl lets me know that eating this much is not good for my health.
There is an immediate bad reaction. Symptoms may include heavy sweating, followed by intense dizziness, and sharp gas pains in my stomach that cause poor driving.
I do know that no matter how bad things are, I have to get up the next day and do it some more.