Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.

  • Behavioral Therapist
  • MA Developmental Psychology, Columbia
  • BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA

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    Mission Impossible
    A Dangerous Method

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    The Life & Times of Tim

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    by George R.R. Martin

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    Fox & Friends


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Saturday, September 19, 2009  
Pavlov's Human
There are times in one's life when one begins to question basic principles by which they live their lives. Whether this is a a basic understanding of humanity, the supernatural or otherwise...these fleeting moments can shake one to the core and shape the course of the rest of their lives.

Today, I experienced just one such event...and I fear I will never be the same again.

As I am a perpetually growing boy (or so my mom tells me), I require a large number of calories in order for me to perform at school and work, as these 5-year olds tend to be exhausting. However, as is often the case, I often do not run on a sufficient amount of nourishment, resulting in mid-day hunger pangs, which multiple Altoids do not cure, typically while I'm at work. Since one of my current employers is relentlessly hospitable, she has always said that I can feel free to get a drink or snack from their kitchen. I always turn down this offer, probably out of overt shyness masked as politesse, but today the pangs were getting to me, no one was home, so I thought I'd have a peak into the pantry, where there are usually Malomars and Granola Bars galore. Unfortunately, all of these were freshly bought and therefore sealed. So I had to look for something more accessible. After seconds of browsing, I spotted a winner. An open bag with the reliable "Newman's Own" brand label, as well as "Peanut Butter" emblazoned across the bottom. I stuck my hand in to help myself to 3 or 4 of these treats and went back to my job, taking no notice of Teddy the Yorkshire Terrier barking at me all along the way.

The first bite was underwhelming to say the lest. Bland and tasteless pretty much sums it up, without a trace of this alleged "Peanut Butter." I was under-nourished so I had another. Upon my swallowing of the third treat, I began to question what I was actually consuming. The pieces of this nefarious puzzle were coming together in my mind....

The word "treat" on the package.... Paul Newman holding a dog for some reason.... the terrier barking at me.... the faint taste of imitation chicken....

I returned to the pantry and brought the bag into the light, reading the stomach-churning words which I had skipped over in my free-loading stupor: "Newman's Own Organic PREMIUM DOG TREATS."

At that point, I was still chewing on the fourth barley flour enhanced treat. I dropped the bag to the floor and dashed to the kitchen garbage can and proceeded to untreat myself to these evil confections.

I now look back upon how juvenile and, frankly, American I was acting. I was hungry then and with impatience in my heart and barbarism on the brain, I rushed to fill my vacuuous belly, poisoning myself, and nearly perishing in the process. Were it not for what I learned in all of my years in Los Angeles (bulimia really is an art) I might not be writing this right now.

Paul Newman, I thought I could trust you.

8:27 PM


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