The Hungry I

I know we have to eat to live, but I want to live to eat.  

At the same time, I don’t want to clog my arteries, blow up my sugar count, and make my heart explode.  It’s difficult.  You see, I’ve been programmed to want fat and sugar in some deep reptile part of my brain so much that I’m ready to fight off a saber tooth tiger for its kill to get a piece of that nice buttery mastodon belly.  

Unfortunately for me, these days I can pick up a decent mastodon belly in most supermarkets near my house and there are no more saber toothed tigers to make it even sporting.  My reptile brain couldn’t care less about the lack of competitive predators, so it’s way too easy to go to the Safeway and return to my cave with armloads of crap that will kill me, slowly, but thoroughly.

I can’t outwit my reptile brain.  It’s older and more primitive than the rest of my head parts.  I just need to plan, plan, plan what I want, and hope that I can stick to my plan, despite the howling in my head that happens every time I pass the cake-cookie-candy, deep fried chicken/steak/what-have-you, salty snacks now with extra salt aisles.

Maybe my plan will work.  On the other hand, there’s that Mike Tyson quote:  “Everyone has a plan ‘till they get punched in the mouth.”

If I can just avoid Mike Tyson, maybe I’ll be okay.

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