Autumn Taylor
The plight of a picky eater knows no bounds. We live our lives and are met with deficiencies and mockery of every caliber. Everyone loves to pick on us.
“How is this an ick?”, you ask. “This is your personal preference, not mine.”
If you have a favorite food, I probably hate it (unless you are also horrifically picky, then shhh). Fruit? Nope. Vegetables? Nope. Candy? Nope. Water? Nope. Ridicule, mock, and hate me all you want, but I’m subjectively right.
“How are you alive? You need at least three of those things to survive.”
I have no idea! The fact I’ve lived as long as I have without consequence is frankly suspicious. I live off the same 3 meals and Dr. Pepper. I’m convinced I’ve somehow altered my physical being enough to become a medical anomaly. I don’t want to know what sort of stunts my body pulls to keep me going. I horrify my friends and fellow editors on a daily basis.
“There’s no way you’re actually that picky, you’re exaggerating.”
My grocery bill begs to differ. The waitstaff at the restaurants need nothing more complicated than chicken nuggets at the ready. My family knows all two of my orders by heart. I might be picky, but at least I’m consistent. I live off of nothing but protein and carbs.
Can I eat other things? Sure. Will I enjoy it? Probably not. I’ve been surprised on occasion, but my diet remains largely predictable. I do enjoy pasta or steak for special events. Every once in a while, I go through sleeves of Fig Newtons to spice things up a little.
“What, so are you picky because of allergies?”
No. My shellfish allergy does nothing to keep me from narrowly dodging anaphylaxis during every beach trip (with the exception of shrimp, shrimp is nasty).
“Why are you like this?”
I don’t have to explain myself to you. Once I’m dead and the people orchestrating organ donation get to dissect me, then you might get your answer. Maybe. If I’m feeling generous.
“You’ll probably be dead soon, eating like that.”
I am an outlier from any statistic you’ve ever laid eyes upon. My cells have weathered horrors beyond even my own comprehension. Lovecraft has nothing on this.
Besides, in this economy, who can afford to do anything but be short-lived? I’m here for a good time, not a long time. If my good time means never trying to expand my palate, so be it. I’m broke anyways. I will perish in a corporate hell with nothing but a room temperature Dr. Pepper to pry from my cold, dead hands.
“You’re being dramatic.”
If I have to eat a single grape I will die far sooner. You don’t understand.
Besides, you can’t critique me. You’re probably one of those people that hates tuna or something.
”How can you like tuna of all things?”
It’s delicious. I devour boxes of the stuff weekly.
“Every word that leaves your mouth disgusts me.”
I’m not even talking. Suffer.
