My bones shake, rhythmically knocking my kneecaps together. Thud thud clap thud clap clap thud. It begins to hurt. I can feel my heart beating in my ass. The wooden chair I sit on becomes a torture device, tightening to the pulse of my ass-heart-beat. My hair sprawls spider-like and sweat-drenched across my pursed lips, my creased forehead, my adamant, set face. Slowly, meticulously, I lift my head, release my lips from their sphinctered pose and say, “No.” The cheeseburger glares back. Animosity and strife rippling through the very sauce it's drenched in. It threatens to consume me, as opposed to the more socially acceptable adverse.
To fluff out what must be an agonising confusion for you, dear reader, I'm allergic to wheat. Have you ever tried a rye-burger? Don't. It's god-awful. My life exists with anguish, awkwardness and a constant, painful yearning. Every muffin becomes a crude Larson-esque Attila-the-bun character. Every hammy, pineappley, cheesey, phantasmagorical pizza slice slaps me across the face, jeering. Taunting me. Each noodle winds itself around my very heartstrings, squeezing, imploring me to perform my basic human right and eat the godly substance that is flour.
Sure, it's easy for you to tell me that I'm over-reacting, you apathetic wheat-muncher. This isn't a woes-me rant. It's a “try and see where I'm coming from, living with this most evil of all allergies” rant. Totally different. Imagine a life without butter-drenched naan bread, jam-filled doughnuts covered in puffs of sugar, waffles, sweet, glorious waffles, suspended in golden, sparkling pools of maple syrup, capped with billowing, voluminous peaks of soft, white whipped cream. Now tell me you don't feel a slight twinge of empathy.
Yes, there are substitutes. Yes, they taste practically the same. Yes, they cost give-or take nine times the price of regular wheat flour products. Yes, I'm a student and am in no way going to throw away precious drinking money on rice flour. (I probably would spend my drinking money on rice flour, if I was afforded the opportunity to have such a thing as drinking money.) The point is, despite the fact that there are a million wheat-free alternatives to choose from, I want the original. I want the waffles that give me headaches and stomach cramps, it's a discomfort that I've always associated with waffles. No pain, no gain. No waffle, no pain. (This is the point where I begin to concern myself with the state of my mental health.)
O.K, so I'm stubborn and ridiculous. I get it now. Once written down, I see that I've got to either perform acts of thievery to sponsor my rice-flour habit, or accept that I'm going to feel ill every time I succumb to the dreaded desire for wheat. Bite the bullet, not the cheeseburger. Suck up the situation and not the noodle. Find something worth ranting about.