I want to address the issue of foodosexuals. A lot of people think that foodosexuals are just some urban legend that was created by some school kids sitting around a campfire trying to scare each other. But try telling that to my cousin! His name was Tim, and he had often told me about his older brother, Mike, who would sometimes spend entirely too much time in the bathroom. Tim said that, on those occasions, it never failed that Mike had something tucked under his armpit as he made his way to the bathroom. Tim couldn't see what it was that he was, and so one day he hid under his bed and waited for Mike to come back from the bathroom after one his extended visits. He said he saw Mike put something under his mattress. When Tim could hear Mike going down the stairs, he came out from under his bed and looked under Mike's mattress. He couldn't believe what he found. It was an old Betty Crocker cook book. He recalled the day when his mother looked all over the house for it, almost in tears due to the fact that it had been passed down to her from her mother, and her mother had gotten it from her mother. Tim said he thought about stealing it from Mike and giving it back to his mother, but changed his mind when he found that a lot of the pages were stuck together because Mike apparently used it to . . . Anyway, it's no myth! In fact, about a week ago I saw a group of guys who Mike used to hang out with; they used to meet at each other's houses and watch rerun after rerun of the Martha Stewart Show. When they saw me, they approached me. When I turned and ran, they chased me. I almost got away, but as the old saying goes, "almost" only counts in horse-shoes and hand-grenades. Unfortunately for me, I happen to bear a strong resemblance to a really lean piece of meat. Two of them held me while this one guy . . . Well never mind about that. I'll tell that story at the next campfire I find myself sitting around. Anyway, I can assure you that these people fucking exist!! If you think you might have a foodosexual in your house, go to the mall and buy a cook book; one filled with full color 8x10 glossy pictures of juicy pork roasts, steaming baked hams, strawberry cheese-cakes, and stuff like that. Leave it sitting around somewhere in the living room. If it comes up missing, and a family member starts to spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, you've got yourself a foodosexual. But don't panic. They're harmless . . . until they're not!!
There was a day in another thread when the Goblin was talking about an issue that Storch knew quite well through personal experience--substance abuse. Ah, those were the days, thought storch. He'd never done heroin, though he had done speed several times, acid ten or so times, cocaine once, marijuana seven thousand, eight hundred and thirty-two times--maybe more, but he couldn't really remember the seven thousand, eight hundred and thirty-third time, not with any specificity. And there was the alcohol. Alcohol! Suffice it to say that he had probably spilled more than most people will drink in an equal time frame. Why did he do it? Because he could not come up with a good enough reason to not do it. It was a distraction from the day. No! It was a distraction from the life. It was the shortest distance between himself and happiness. No, there was no real happiness in such a fulfillment of such a need, but happiness had yet to be defined in such a life as his. There was only survival. In his very young life, survival of the body was most important. Later, survival of the mind was the goal--more important and more pressing than even the survival of the body. The body could wait. The mind, most times, couldn't . . . or wouldn't. The marijuana was the thing. When Storch could absolutely not stand to be in his skin even one more hour, marijuana would find her way to him and pull him out of his despair. Ahhh, those were the days of the long, dark night of the soul.
