Day 1: I'm in a heaven of sugary confectionary. No longer can I see his faults, his stooping like a grandpa, his mockery of my lesser intelligence, his sitting style that only stone gargoyles tolerate, even his lack of eyebrows, which made my own itch in alarm of meeting the same fate while thoughts of remedies brewed in my mind. At that point, tattooing Angelina Jolie's arches to my mug was runner up to hair plug ins. All of that changed when L's hunger attacked, and was obliterated by five raspberry swirled cheesecakes, gallons of chocolate chip ice cream, and perhaps the largest chocolate bar, known by man or otherwise. And, oh Lordy! Thank the saint who taught him manners, because it occurred to him it would "probably be polite to share", and to share he was made! He'll regret that decision later, when the sugar high begins to fade… oh how I'll make him regret.
Day 4: This man. He isn't human. I have yet to see a slice of real food pass his lips. I know, I've been watching. He must eat when I'm not looking, I first thought. Oh how I foolishly thought it it until we ran out of sweets at the end of day two. Perhaps he just wanted to celebrate lack of parental restraint, although I thought of ways time better spent. The morning of day three brought a cornucopia of sweets to which I was banned from. With nothing to do, I began observing him, watching him, openly staring. He started getting antsy under my ogling, so he moved his Smarties party to the bathroom. I'm not positive of everything I saw from my viewpoint through the crack under the door, but I do know this: it wasn't broccoli he picked up off the floor. And ate.
Day eleven: how the (bleep) is this (bleep) still (bleep) alive after (bleep) eating all that (bleep) candy after ten (bleep) days and still (bleep) have room for (bleep) more of that (bleep). And he's. Still. Fit. Two days ago I asked for the secret, pleaded, begged. He chuckled and said my brain couldn't handle the added activity after its sorry neglect for years. I died that day. The day after I revived and decided it was the addiction talking, and seeking him help was my duty as a responsible citizen. Perhaps a well-planned intervention. Most likely a well-equipped asylum. Now that I thought it over, I'm choosing what would best scare him straight to the salad bar and make him put down that fondue and pick up this bratwurst. The reign his folks had on him was enough to make him go berserk in these moments of freedom, so a warning of the leash's reemergence would loom over his head long enough for the endorphins to wear off and self-preservation to kick in.
Day twelve: Don't want to talk about it.
Day thirteen: Stab yourself, L.
Day fifteen: I called. An old guy answered. I explained the situation, how he needed to reel his son back into reality, how unpleasant clogged arteries can be. But Gramps assured me it's normal and nothing to worry about. However, if he ever began eating like me it'd be cause for alarm. Cheeky bastard.
I'm not sure what day this would be: For whoever this is regarding, let it be known that stashing my food to "wean me off" and avoid "painful withdrawal" is indeed thievery which I have no qualms in reporting it. Goodbye Lily, and I hope that the state penitentiary is the worst you ever experience.