Abandon all hope, ye who read further. This is not a meal. This is a reckoning.
I no longer dine. I **subsist**. My kitchen has become a chamber of chaos, a sanctuary for the unhinged. It is here that I partake in my daily ritual: cracking open a **room-temperature can of SpaghettiOs** like it’s a sacrament from the underworld.
No heating. No seasoning. No spoon. I tilt the can and pour its contents directly into my mouth like some kind of sentient garbage disposal. The sauce—if you can call it that—drips down my chin, red and viscous like the tears of a forgotten chef.
The noodles are limp. The meatballs taste like regret. Every chew is an insult to Italian cuisine. I stare into the distance between bites, haunted by the ghosts of meals I could’ve had. Real meals. Hot meals. Dignified meals.
But sometimes, when I crave the thrill of potential gastrointestinal collapse, I push the boundaries. I double down. I chase the SpaghettiOs with a warm can of off-brand **energy drink**, purchased from a vending machine that accepts only quarters and judgment.
The carbonation burns. The flavors clash. My body begs for mercy—but my soul? My soul ascends.
This is not eating. This is performance art fueled by self-loathing and iron will.
Return to Sanity