BEEF JUNKIE
I think Bloomingdale's should consider installing an electronic fence around their store. A woman was standing by the doorway eating a meatball sandwich. An electronic fence would have kept her away from the doorway. And she knew. She looked at me, and she knew right away. An electronic fence would have at least backed her off. But there's no fence—so she pulls a meatball out of her sandwich—not even out of her sandwich—she rips half a meatball out of her teeth. Do I look that sick? Do I look like somebody so desperate that I'd eat half a meatball after it's exploded on the ground? There should be a fence. Because I should not have to get down on my hands and knees and compete with a dog for half a meatball.

I'm an addict. I know that. I've been to therapy. I've seen pictures of my intestines with five year old beef still hanging around inside them, I've seen pictures of hideous-looking people who are supposed to be me in thirty years if I don't stop.

But today—today is different. Just after lunch, a giant hamburger appeared to me in front of a McDonald's. Plain, but in a sesame bun that kept opening and closing, winking at me. I tried to reach out and touch it, but it disappeared. It was back a minute later, and this time it looked really angry, dripping blood red ketchup. Had I eaten its brothers and sisters? Was it here for revenge? Or was it my one last chance? I've been clean now for three hours. I've discovered portobello mushrooms. I bought a book about breeding cows. I want to give back. I have a syringe filled with pureed lamb in case I hit a rough patch. Tonight, I'm going to a support group. I run even from regular-sized buns. I want to be well. I really, really do.