Animals in the wild rarely change their eating habits by choice. They stick with what’s available and what’s in season keeping themselves aligned within their proper spot in the food chain that the universe has decided to allot them. Animals are very obedient this way and, arguably, lucky to have had such decisions made for them. They know what to eat, when to eat it, and how much to eat (Eat Beast being a special exception in each regard).
However, when taken out of their normal place or given extreme circumstances they may be forced to change their diet and not for the better. They may resort to pica (eating of earth) or binging on plants, animals, or decomposing matter which may fill them up but their systems may simply be unable to handle. Furthermore, no creature enjoys having their diet forcibly altered to something that they aren’t used too.
When I interned at the Long Beach Aquarium way-back-when I was tasked with wading into the ray pool and feeding them their bits of fish and chum. One day when we had to change the composition of their food, the rays lets me know their dissatisfaction with the food by slapping me with their tails. These adorable puppy like fish suddenly became little divas snubbing what to them was slop not meant for any self respecting manta, and they let me know it. The proof was the red whip like marks that streaked my ankles, like I’d been flogged in a Turkish prison by a limp-wristed guard.
I finally get why those rays were so pissed.
If I eat out again, or eat another sandwich, I may start slappin' the everlovin' hell out of people myself.
Due to the fire my eating habits have been uprooted and thrown apart. My usual diet of salads, homemade Chinese, Thai and Middle Eastern food has been forcibly supplanted with eating out and lots of sandwiches. Now, mind you, I like both of these things, but I like them in moderation. Eating out every night loses its novelty after your twelfth sushi roll.
My body isn’t really used to things like fast food or processed food. I’ve trained it well. Suddenly, this onslaught of junk food I’ve shoved down my gullet, storming my own Bastille, is not going well. I feel funky. Slightly sick. Slow and sloth-like. I feel like I could cut open a good artery and use a spoon to scoop out the cholesterol and spread it on toast.
Sandwiches are great and all, but to mix it up on a regular basis you have to buy a lot of food. Have you seen the prices they charge for basic sandwich makings? Criminal, I say. $5.99 for six (six!) slices of gourmet deli meat? Lord Almighty, for a few more bucks I can go and buy a ham, cook it myself, and have thicker, much tastier meat for my samiches and get a lot more than six measly, deli slices. Who the hell do these deli meat makers think I am, Oliver Twist? Working the factory twelve hours a day for a crepe paper-like leaflet of cured turkey breast? No, no, Oscar Meyer. You can take your cold cuts and shove ‘em. Bastards.
Now, it’s not like this everyday. I’m still trying to cram in a few salads. Bake some chicken thighs. Eat some more normal fare. I’ve been drinking wine like there’s a prize at the bottom of the bottle as if it were a box of Cracker Jacks (not so much as to be alarmed, but hey, right now it's a perfectly acceptable time to drink two glasses a night).
Still, it’s trying. I’m looking forward to signing a lease somewhere soon and getting an address, a place where I can finally start stocking up my larder to it’s once former glory. A place where I can cook freely and regularly.
Until then, however, more sandwiches and eating out.