Late one night I realised that I hadn’t eaten dinner and decided to eat four of those tiny, unsatisfying organic apples. I don’t really know that there was a ton more to my logic than just, “If I eat these, I will have eaten something that’s the size of a meal, and that is a good thing to have done.”
As I was sitting at the table getting carnal with the fruit, my brother sat down next to me and said, “Everything in moderation.”
It was pretty paternal advice, I knew, and also completely true, but I didn’t care. I was going to eat four apples because why shouldn’t I, ya know? It was a personal challenge, and screw a dude tryna to tell me how to run this operation. You’re not my real mother.
I let it get quiet for a minute, just us and the apple bite sounds, while I thought of a response. Clearly I wasn’t going to stop mid-apple, but I didn’t want to be sarcastic either. I weighed my options. Then, once the silence had thoroughly set in between us and it felt like I wasn’t going to respond at all, I said, “Eat a dick, Josh” my mouth full of food.
The act was so satisfying, and, in my state, felt so rebellious, I finished eating with the pleased-with-myself smile reserved for the kind of seventh grader who tells a substitute teacher his name is Seymour Butts. Overtly smug and gluttonous. Smelling my own cosmic farts.
I don’t know why, but I remembered that while I was running an errand today and laughed at myself.
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