I've heard your pleas, begging me to grow up, and I've finally decided to do something about them. Enough is enough. That's right, the time has come for me to take responsibility and stop blaming my problems on anything other than processed foods. I probably should've put down the sack of refined grain and come to this conclusion a long time ago, but I was too busy gorging myself on what might as well be poison (at least hemlock comes from the ground!) to comprehend what I was doing. I'm happy to announce that I'm now in a place where I can admit that all my life's ills are Big Food's fault. To prove it, here are some of my specific failings that are directly linked to my reliance on artificial foodstuffs:
Being born without the ability to walk: Before I could even eat my first sleeve of Oreos, I was the victim of processed food. My poor mother, who didn't know any better, ate sour-cream-and-onion chips throughout her entire pregnancy. (It was the nineties!) As a result, it took me nine to twelve months to stand upright and start getting around on my own. Have you ever seen a baby giraffe plop into the world? Those babies are practically doing the Nae Nae within hours of being born. What do mother giraffes eat? Not Cap'n Crunch, I'll tell you that much.
Throwing up on the school bus: I'd bet my weight in chia seeds that children were not barfing on buses five hundred years ago. What's changed? Oh, I don't know—maybe what kids are eating? If I had been dared to scarf down a hundred heirloom cherry tomatoes that I had planted and picked myself instead of a hundred jellybeans that I found hidden in the ripped upholstery of the seat in front me, I likely still would've got sick, but the color of my vomit would've been a whole lot different. Purple puke simply isn't natural. You have no idea how traumatizing it is to find out about artificial dyes at such a young age.
Showing up late to my uncle's funeral: I know they're called Hot Pockets, but I'd like to suggest a rebrand, because these pockets are filled with molten lava, which is why I was forced to stop at 7-Eleven for a Slurpee, even though I knew that the Mass had already started. After all, it's hard to mourn when your tongue is on fire. Come to think of it, my uncle is the one who introduced me to frozen foods. Loved the stuff. Maybe taunting those tigers at the zoo had less to do with his demise than the TV-dinner billionaires want us to think. . . .
Being unlovable: How am I supposed to let someone into my life when high-fructose corn syrup has the door to my heart stuck shut? That's just a metaphor about how artificial sweetener can sour your emotional well-being, but the physical stickiness from eating, say, burritos you made by wrapping Gushers in a Fruit Roll-Up can make it really difficult to swipe on Tinder. And good luck finding the energy to sign up for eHarmony after a sugar crash.
Getting banned from every T.G.I. Friday's in the tri-state area: Sure, I might've had one too many Sangria ’Ritas and then taken a bowling pin off the wall and tried to act out that scene from "There Will Be Blood" on an unsuspecting busboy, but I also didn't see any farm-to-table items on the menu.
Now you understand—my problems and processed foods are more closely linked than a can of Vienna sausages. Sure, maybe all of this is just me trying to justify my forty-dollar-a-day smoothie habit, but I'll tell you one thing: I haven't felt this good in years, and it's all thanks to cutting not-blaming-processed-foods-for-everything out of my life.
