Last night, I faced Death. Greater men than me have gazed into her dead-white eyes and cowered, but I was not afraid. I sat on the beach under the glimmering moon and held my gasping mortality in my hands, which were coated with the dusky seasonings of Cracked Pepper & Olive Oil Triscuits.
Though the waves crashed upon the shore, disturbing the screaming gulls, my mind was elsewhere that night–turning over the same three thoughts, again and again:
1. Triscuits and cheese are so-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o good.
2. My stomach is stretched to capacity and if I continue eating them at this rate I will literally eat myself to death.
3. I DON’T CARE. I WILL EAT UNTIL I DIE.
And I was terrified–terrified at the metal of my own psyche, at my willingness to die for the causes I believed in. Thankfully I was distracted by a screaming girl who ran past me and threw a half-eaten apple into the lake. Then a mosquito got in my mouth so the rest of my night consisted of spitting violently.