On Poison Apples, Steak Tumors, and Other Food Related Phobias

In the past two hours I have been poisoned three times. To be perfectly clear, poisoning in my book means being in close contact with food I deem inedible. The first time was when I was making myself hot chocolate using a new mix, and it didn’t smell right. I leaned over it when it was still steaming to get a nice whiff of warm chocolate and I was met with something that smelt like little bits burned chocolate on burned plastic. So my mom said that she would drink it.

Then, I went to eat an apple. I got out the vegetable peeler, because I can’t eat things with peels on them or without cutting them to make sure that they don’t have any bad spots, and started peeling. You know how there are bruises on apples that look really grainy, are pale brown, and are supremely yucky? Well, this one was covered with them. Like any logical person, I screamed, dropped the apple and peeler, ran across the kitchen, and hid from it behind the refrigerator door. (Yes, I am 17.) My mom and dad ate the apple with dinner.

The last time was when we were all sitting at the table, eating these nice sausages from the Swiss German butcher. I had to work really hard to even convince myself that it was okay to eat the sausages and that they weren’t filled with icky stuff that I could see and didn’t know about. In a bite, about a third of the way into the sausage, I discovered something hard. Naturally, I immediately started gagging and spit everything in my throat and mouth out onto the plate. (I’m a champion gagger-on-food-and-spitter-outer-of-said-food.) My parents were oh-so-happy about that. The cats were even happier.

I wish that I could say that I hope that things could go back to the way that they were when I was x-years-old. Unfortunately, I can’t recall a time when I was a “good eater.” I made Pippa drink my milk for years, and I have never been able to eat meat without dissecting the entire piece with my knife and fork. I cut out the little bits of fat like they’re cancerous tumors.

I honestly could become a surgeon with my steak knife dexterity. Anybody got something they would like cut out of them? I’d give you enough of my Xanax so you’d feel really dopey. I wouldn’t cost as much as a regular doctor, and I’d clean everything with rubbing alchohol and boil it twice. Maybe throw a little bleach in there, too. It’d be great. Let’s do it! Just kidding. Not really. I totally would do it. Just kidding. I’m lying. Just kidding. Just kidding.

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