by M. L. Morrill

I’ve hunger bonked twice in the last week, just doing regular life stuff, not even on a bike ride. Its the worse feeling in the world, getting panic’ey and nervous. Like when you can feel the hunger washing over you because you have had a few handfulls of food all day. and its finally 9pm and you NEED food now, but you only have a few dollars so you can either get a dollar slice of pizza from 7-11, or some 50¢ day old breads from jimmy johns. but its sunday at 7 and they’re all closed, and you’re starving and going crazy. hunger just made you its bitch. that manipulated feeling is worse than depression, who would think you actually NEED to eat every several hours or you start to loose it.
I mean, i have bonked on a bike before, and i mean the most tragic kind of, you’ve been riding for a week straight hauling 50 lbs on your bike and you’re only eating the amount of food you would need in your regular life, like 2000 calories, instead of the 5000. So the kind of bonk that comes after seven straight days of racking up a 3000 calorie deficit. when you are actually crying because all you’re so fucking exhausted, and all you want to do is sleep in a bed and eat a fucking hamburger.
I’ve bonked like that, but this is different, because I’m not 19 anymore, and I am at school, 2.3 miles from my house, i’m hungry but i’ve got a tiny bit of change and the only thing you can get for less than a dollar is a hostess “brownie” for 60¢ or a cigar sized Chic-O-Stick for 35¢. I went with the Brownie because its got 300plus calories, but it makes your teeth hurt because its too sweet, and you already swore off the fruit pies because they made your teeth hurt, but again, I’ve only got 2 dollars til Thursday when i can hopefully sell some plasma and get $25 bucks, and hopefully it won’t rain tomorrow because nothing is worse than sitting in the waiting room covered in road grime, other than it is taking you twice as long as it does normally, to fill the bottle with your 825ccs of plasma because you’re dehydrated and your blood has turned to syrup just like it does when you’re 6000 feet above sea level on Angeles Crest, which is where you would much rather be than in a room full of dudes yelling about Jay Cutler and the Chicago Bears, or about Maury and which one of the dudes is really the baby’s daddy.
I know,
so cool
Happy Birthday Kenny!
Oh, and if all those dirt bags like Bukowski can glorify poverty, then so can I. fuck if i’m waiting for the tough times to get behind me,
I’m the mothafuckin’ mayor of TUFF TOWN
I just wish I could fill my gut with all this privilege.