Food-Mindedness and Body Horror

In case it wasn’t already abundantly clear from my 300 lb. belly, I’m very food-minded. Almost everything in my life reminds me of food in some way. Hell, the word Life will conjure images of the oat square cereal swirling around in milk. The word swirling will remind me of frosted cinnamon buns, keyword being frosted, as in enough frosting to cover the whole fucking thing. At least those words make a modicum of sense, but then there are names of people that remind me of food for no reason at all. Marcus reminds me of hotdogs and mustard. Brad reminds me of French bread. Rachel reminds me of apple juice. Erick reminds me of birthday cake-flavored milkshakes. How did this happen? Was it the constant advertising? Was there some trick of the brain during childhood I wasn’t aware of?

Already, my relationship with food is off to a rocky start. But then there are the things I find disgusting in life and how they find their way into my food. Not literally, but I imagine that they do and my imagination is powerful enough to make me vomit in some cases. For example, if you’ve ever seen the movie Clerks, the View Askew Productions logo at the beginning will serve as nightmare fuel to haunt you at every stage of life. There’s nothing wrong with men dressing in fishnet pantyhose, high heels, and leather thongs…even if they do have grotesque body hair. But it’s the unwanted sexual attention and creepiness of his flirtation that makes it such a traumatic logo. After seeing that logo for the first time, I kept involuntarily picturing his hairy disgusting body in pieces of my lunch meat. Every time I take a bite of ham or turkey, I imagine I’m taking a bite out of that man’s body. My stomach is aching and my fingers are convulsing just thinking about this.

But that’s just one example. If that was the only one, then I wouldn’t have been inspired to write an entire essay on it. What about the Calcobrena Puppets from Final Fantasy IV? You know, those creepy leotard-wearing dolls with buzzed heads, bloodshot eyes, zombie movements, and murderous intentions. They look like they could be Pee-Wee Herman’s children based on their buzz-cuts alone. Pee-Wee Herman once taught his audience how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on his show. Therefore…all of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches will taste like the bodies of the Calcobrena Puppets. It’ll be like eating right off of their skulls, head lice, fleas, and maggots be damned. It’ll be like giving French kisses to each and every one of those dolls…while passing pre-chewed sandwiches back and forth! Again, my stomach is boiling and rotting while I’m typing this.

And what about the Simpsons from their Treehouse of Horror Episodes, particularly the ones where they turn into pale zombies. They chew flesh, they lose limbs, they groan like exhausted monsters, and did I mention that they have pale skin? You know what else is pale in color? Pasta covered in white sauce, whether it’s American cheese or Alfredo sauce. Every bite that I took of those macaroni shells made me believe I was eating pieces of the zombie Simpsons. I took a long time to swallow knowing that zombie flesh was going down my throat and was going to poison me to death. The macaroni turned to mush in my mouth, so when I finally swallowed, I gagged and brought up a little bit of bile with it.

If I rattled off every example of food-related body horror, then we’d be here forever and a day. I could talk about the faceless masks from Pink Floyd the Wall reminding me of melted cheese. I could talk about the diarrhea blasts in The Human Centipede reminding me of chocolate ice cream (that one’s too obvious, though). I could talk about dead flies reminding me of Butterfinger ice cream. How did this all happen? Why are these disgusting things finding their way into my every meal? Am I so linked up with food that every trauma will remind me of such? Suppose I was more inclined towards Legos instead of food. If I touched a Lego piece that had three holes in it, would it remind me of the Pink Floyd masks? What if I was geared towards clothing? Would the View Askew drag queen’s body hair remind me of a wool sweater that’s literally hugging my chest?

I can already hear fatphobic assholes using my food horror as motivation for me to lose weight…or is that just my schizophrenic voices? Nah, I’m pretty sure someone has thought of exploiting me at one point or another. To those fat-shamers, I say watch the Human Centipede and eat a bag of shit and then watch Pink Floyd the Wall and eat an entire McDonald’s Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese (there has to be cheese in it, no exceptions). Unlike drugs and alcohol, food is actually necessary to survive. A cheeseburger will carry you over into the next day. A pack of cigarettes will not. A pepperoni pizza will give you the nutrition you need, even if it’s bad. Alcohol will not. If I gave up all of my favorite foods due to the body horror I’ve witnessed over the years, I would die of anorexia. Imagine that: fat-shaming actually hurts people instead of helping them find motivation. It’s almost as if people are only fat-shaming to satisfy their sadistic urges and are just using motivation as a cover-up for their shitty behavior. Bullying never went away; it just adapted to the new world.

I could tell you all that I’ve found the perfect counter for body horror-induced trauma, but I haven’t. Yes, I’m still alive and eating like a pig, but that’s only because the trauma went away on its own. I eat ham sandwiches whenever I damn well please even though the View Askew drag queen lusted on me through the TV screen as a kid. I eat stuffed mushrooms despite the fact that it feels too much like I’m eating Phanto from Mario Brothers 2, the evilly-smiling little bastard. Trauma going away on its own is not a typical outcome for most people, especially if schizophrenia is a factor like it is for me. Sure, you can take away the stimulus and hope for the Law of Diminishing Returns to kick in, but it doesn’t always do that. I have no solutions for your body horror trauma. As a matter of fact, I may have given you some of that as I described examples of how they make their way into my food.

Sometimes I think I’m the only one who experiences things like this until I Google it and find entire communities full of people who share my problems. But that’s assuming I’m not too lazy on any given day to use Google. It’s such an easy thing, yet I find myself too lazy sometimes to type words into a search engine. If you’re out there and you’re as food-minded as me, I’m sorry I can’t provide solutions for you other than the occasional animal picture and some digital hugs. You know who can provide more than that? Your therapist. They can talk you through your trauma. They can encourage you to face your food-themed fears. They can be there for you when you feel like others would laugh at your plight. Yes, therapy can be expensive at times, but it’s worth every penny if it means you’ll be okay in the end. If you’re not okay, it’s not the end. Life is better alive. It’s a dumb thing to say, but the truth won’t wane away. Okay, now I’m just ripping off quotes and lyrics. I should stop doing that before I get sent to prison for copyright infringement and have my vanilla pudding remind me of my cell mate’s semen. Uh-oh! More body horror!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 26

“Okay, Tom, you can do this…just go in there…and do you, as the kids say…you can do this…” As Tom Simpson repeated this mantra to himself in the driver’s seat of his car, he breathed deeply and secretly wondered if any of his own former students had to do this right before they walked into his class. Such thoughts were packaged together with the notion that Tom didn’t deserve to do what he was about to do, that he was washed up, tainted, and unforgivable. A few more deep breaths pushed the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. Slowly, yet surely, he exited the vehicle and crossed the moonlit streets of Perkins City.

Tom never expected The Tool Shed to be as laidback as it was. The folk rock music being performed by a drag queen onstage soothed his tense body. The male eye candy made him feel young and colorful again. Yet through it all, he still felt alone even in a gay bar full of handsome men. Nevertheless he straightened his tie and approached the counter hoping for an interaction of some kind.

The burly black barkeep with golden loop earrings asked, “What can I get for you tonight, sunshine?”

“Just a beer would be fine,” said Tom nervously as he looked down where his wedding ring used to be. Ask and ye shall receive: a tall frosty mug of golden beer that probably tasted like horse piss anyways. Tom sipped it and suppressed a bitter face, yet kept on drinking out of necessity. Maybe the phrase “liquid courage” had some meaning to it after all.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” asked the bartender with a warm smile.

Fingering the purple loop where his wedding ring once laid, Tom said, “I’m sure you’ve seen me on the news here and there. I don’t want to say much beyond that, but if you’ve already figured it out, then I’ll get out of your hair whenever you want me to.”

“Nah, nah, I ain’t hating. It’s all good, buddy. We’re all friends here,” said the bartender with a wink, which made Tom chuckle lightly. “Seriously, though, you look like hell. You keep looking down at your finger or some shit. You a married man?”

“Used to be. I had to pawn my ring just to make ends meet.”

“Man, that’s tough. Sorry to hear that. Well, if you’re looking for a new start, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got good music, good beer, good food, and some motherfuckers that look goooooooo-ood tonight!” The last line was punctuated with a hearty laugh.

“You know…I actually came here for another reason aside from your goooooo-ood beer. You wouldn’t happen to have any job applications handy, would you?”

The barkeep shifted his eyes between the drag queen singing onstage and Tom and smiled as he asked, “No offense, but aren’t you a little old to be taking that dude’s job? I’m not trying to be mean or nothing, but you don’t look like the singer type. Hell, you sound like you lost your voice long before you came in here tonight.”

Taking deeper sip of his beer, Tom said, “I’m not applying to be a singer or a dancer. I was looking for something a little more…higher up. Something more suited to my college degree. Maybe some bookkeeping. Maybe something in the range of…assistant manager?”

Nodding, the barkeep said, “Ah, that makes a little more sense now. You look like a smart dude. I’m sure we can find something for you to do behind the scenes. Hold that thought while I go get you the paperwork.” He ruffled Tom’s hair and walked off to the back office.

Tom took an even deeper gulp of his beer and turned his attention toward the drag queen, who had the voice of a heavenly angel and the looks of a sassy diva. The way his red dress flowed down, the way his long raven hair flopped about, and the way he showed off his hairless body made Tom warm and fuzzy deep in his core. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had a big goofy grin on his own face, but it was there complete with a line of spittle obliviously hanging from his bottom lip. The drag queen winked and giggled at him and Tom couldn’t help but tuck his head in embarrassment and giggle himself.

“He’s a beauty, ain’t he?” said the returning bartender, who snapped Tom out of his trance long enough for him to notice a fresh job application along with a red inked pen. “You’ll notice on this thing that you’ll be asked for three references. But don’t worry, you don’t have to put down Linda Williams’s name if you don’t want to.” The bartender winked and gave Tom a confused expression.

“Wait a minute, how did you…?”

“Like you said, you’re in the media one way or another. But that’s alright, buddy. We’re all friends here and we don’t judge. I just have one little favor to ask of you before you fill out the application. No more of this democracy is dead shit, alright? It ain’t going to fly here.”

Tom made a flat tire noise and said, “Trust me, I know how ineffective that line was. Ask any of my former students and they’ll be more than happy to tell you about it.” With that said, he got right to work in filling out the application. Now that the bartender mentioned it, there weren’t many people Tom could use as a reference since he spent the last few decades pissing everybody off at Perkins High. By the time he actually reached that point in the paperwork, he froze like Walt Disney. “I think I need a little help here.”

“I’ll have a glass of beer, Charlie,” said a familiar dreamy voice sitting next to Tom. Careful not to make complete eye contact, Tom saw that the drag queen had finished his performance and took a seat next to him for some odd reason. So much for “liquid courage”. Tom buried his attention back into the application when the drag queen patted his shoulders and said, “You look a little lost there, buddy.”

“Honey, I’ve been lost for a long damn time now,” said Tom. “I’m still wrapping my head around this damn piece of paper. I’ve filled out many of them in my lifetime, but this…this reminds me of one of the tests I used to give my kids. Sorry, I’m rambling. Must be the alcohol talking.”

Peeking over Tom’s shoulder, the drag queen said, “You can use me as a reference if you want.”

Snickering nervously, Tom shook his head and said, “That’s really sweet of you, but I’m serious about getting this job.”

“And I’m serious about you having it,” said the smiling drag queen. “We could always use some fresh blood around here. Look around, sweet lips. There’s not a whole lot of business going on around here. It’s like people are afraid to come in here or something. Maybe if you can drum up some business, we can turn this shit around, hmm?”

“I guess so. I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Simpson.”

“Yeah, I noticed on your application there. I’m Dave, but everybody here calls me Davita. Nice to meet you, Tom.”

“So basically everybody here names you after a kidney dialysis clinic? What, do you have little guys in musketeer suits follow you around?”

Tom’s joke earned a hearty laugh from Davita, who squeezed his shoulder and said, “You’re something else, Tom, you really are. You don’t sound like a pissed off history teacher at all. Trust me, I wouldn’t want to work there either, especially with all them football studs walking around beating up ‘queer-mo-sexuals’ as they like to call them.”

“Oh, trust me, Davita, all that’s going to change now that Principal Williams knows what the hell’s going on…and now that I’m gone forever.”

Rubbing Tom’s shoulders, Davita said, “Hey, listen to me. You’re going to make a great worker here. Don’t let any of that past BS get in your way, alright? I know you feel like shit and all, but if you want to work in a gay bar, gay meaning happy, then you’ve got to learn how to smile every now and then. I mean, you looked like you were having the time of your life when I was up there singing. Bring that attitude to your job and you’ll be fine.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Tom as he filled Davita’s name in one of the reference boxes. “One down, two more references to go. Now who do I use?”

“You can use anybody you want, honey. If you don’t want Charlie to contact them, just check that little box and you’ll be fine. Besides, nobody really cares about those things anyways. If they want a new employee, they’ll hire. It really all comes down to how you present yourself in the interview. You give good interviews, right?” The ex-teacher shook his head and Davita said, “Tom?”

“I guess I do give good interviews.”

“That’s the spirit!” squeaked Davita as he kissed Tom on the top of his head. “You’re finally getting to do something you actually love doing. That should give you the happy-ass attitude you want rolling into the interview.”

“I bet you’ve been reading The Secret, haven’t you?” joked Tom. “How many times? Five? Six? A dozen?”

“More like two dozen,” Davita joked back.

Tom shook his head and finished filling out the job application, most likely with bullshit answers. He could have written down Hulk Hogan or Mickey Mouse for one of his references and Davita and Charlie would have warmed his heart with the same smile anyways. Even before he was granted an interview, Tom felt like he belonged, which was a feeling he wish he could have given his students. But enough about the past and forget about the future. It was time to live in the moment for Tom Simpson.