Love letter to carbs and some other things

Dear Carbs,
I miss you; do you miss me? You probably don't. You've probably moved on to others, and I understand. I would've done the same thing.

We've had some really good times, no? Pasta, do you remember how every time Smitty would go out of town, we would have our special time together because I didn't feel like cooking anything else? We would have wine, watch some DVR and really let our hair down. Mmm...I miss the taste of you mingled with marinara sauce. I dream about it.

Potatoes, I can't forget you. You soothed me when I was sick and couldn't eat anything else. Your loving starch enveloped me like a comfortable blanket and filled up my my empty places with buttery goodness. You are sometimes like the lesser-known friend talked about in "Wind Beneath My Wings." You fit into any meal with no aforethought as to whether you may have had something else to do, and you do it with aplomb and grace.

Rice and bread, how do you manage your adaptability? You can make a sandwich, and you can go underneath anything, respectively, to complete all of  us. How many times has a sandwich hit the spot after a long day? And rice, you were a main component of my favorite dish growing up, pepper steak, and you can't be substituted for brown rice. Brown rice, I've met white rice, and you are no white rice.

I will be seeing some of you soon, although in smaller portions, perhaps with whole grains thrown crudely over your perfect forms, but I wanted you to know, that if you want to text me or friend me on Facebook, we could do that, but I can't make any plans to see you just yet.

I love you all,
Emily

Ahhhh...that was cathartic. When we went grocery shopping Sunday, I actually said to an inanimate potato, "I miss you." Smitty pretended not to know me. That's fine, I just wanted them to be aware. I nearly clawed the throat out of a co-worker eating a chocolate cookie, but it was a fleeting primal thing, like when you're waiting for a bus or train and briefly think about pushing someone in front of the bus/train. I fight these things. Occasionally, my inner censor fails, and I see a guy at a party wearing baggy, acid-washed jeans and a wife-beater, and I can't take it any more and ask, "I'm sorry, but what exactly were you thinking when you left the house?" And all my guy friends shrink away because they assume he won't hit me, but will hit them...and it works out fine, because he knows he's lame and just says, "I've been working out."

My point is, for the most part, I don't say or do the things I really want to. None of us do. I probably do more than others, but it's not really shocking from me anymore. We should all take a well-inked lesson from the "Simpsons" episode where Bart did whatever he wanted and the town followed suit. I think it causes cancer, or at the very least, wrinkles, to tell even white lies. That's how heart disease happens, people. Fly the blunt flag...or just do what I do and phrase it sarcastically so people don't know if you're serious.