Dear Depressive: What Do I Eat Tonight?

Dear Depressive,

I went to Whole Foods and stared at the vegetables and grains, paralyzed with a sense of absurdity, kept thinking “eating is already stupid, how can I even cook.” Everybody at Whole Foods seemed smugly evolved and politically well-adjusted, like they were confident holding their organic fennel or something. I think I might be even more depressed than you. I want to die right now, but I am also hungry. What the fuck do I make for dinner tonight?

Thanks,

Always Somewhat Suicidal

____________

Dear ASS,

I know how you feel, sorry buddy. Your dopamine levels are really low, and you need some reward signaling mechanism in your brain quick – and this calls for high levels of saturated fat and sodium. Tonight you will eat what I eat when I’m depressed: Death Crunch. This entails going to the corner store and buying a large 10.5 oz (297.6 g) bag of chips (preferably Lay’s “classic,” but Ruffles or tortilla chips will work) and a six-pack of beer (preferably IPA or porter). Also be sure to get a jar of nacho cheese. You will need a can opener.

You should have various canned things in your home. I’m talking about canned tuna, clams, sardines, anchovies, or spam. You should also have jarred things like pickles, capers, artichoke hearts, roasted bell peppers, etc. If you don’t have these things, you may use canned soup, but that is not encouraged. If you happen to have some chili, then you fucking rock.

I think you know where I’m going. That’s right bitch, turn up some Led Zeppelin and take off your shirt now. We about to get fucked up bro. Now take all the canned and jarred things you can find and chop them up – somewhere between “rustic” and “anal” – into a large mixing bowl. Now drop the potato chips on the floor, make a tiny slit with a knife so the air can come out, and roll over the bag 3-4 times with your shirtless body, so that the chips are crushed, without becoming “dust.” Empty these breadcrumbs to-the-extreme into the bowl, seasoning with paprika, cumin, or sweet curry (if you’re feeling exotic) or oregano, rosemary, and thyme (if you’re feeling white). Empty jar of nacho cheese into the bowl, “lubing” up said constituents. (If you weren’t able to procure nacho cheese, supplement with either butter or mayonnaise.) Slide pre-Death Crunch into a shallow/broad baking sheet, ideally 2″ deep, gently padding the culinary love shards with your hands. Broil at 400° for 12-15 minutes. It’s okay if you have a mild boner.

Guess what motherfucker. Take a wild guess what bounty you will behold when you open the oven door like a Sylvia Plath who no longer wants to die. It’s called “Death Crunch,” in case you missed it the first time. You know how people walk over hot coals with spiritual fervor? Well, these are your hot coals, and yous about to get enlightened. Remember that six pack you landed with a faded crumpled Hamilton? Drink a crisp ol’ boy, and repeat five times. By the way, there should be some gin in the freezer, if you got any sense in this cruel world. This is how the story ends. Death Crunch will enter your mouth, your heart, and finally your veins. It’s at least 20 years from your heart attack, so enjoy your youth. Death Crunch is a personal coup, shouted through the megaphone of fuck yeah, that life — while meaningless of oft defined by love’s failures and heart’s seizures — might just be worth living a little wee bit more. And don’t worry if you don’t finish your Death Crunch, it’s even better the next day.

Take care,

Jimmy