I shouldn't eat my feelings.
I don't, really, because if I did I'd be about 300 pounds, but I do it enough to know I shouldn't.
What's ironic, though, is that when I'm really feeling...when I'm feeling to the point of wanting to throw something against a wall, or climb into Stella and drive until there's nowhere left to drive, when I'm feeling like I should be at Branticus' house crying while he gives me bad advice but listens anyway....when I'm feeling those things, I don't eat.
I don't even have an appetite.
Like that whole summer with Wyoming Boy.
I lost weight.
Or like that time almost three months ago (we don't often revisit that day)....Whit Leigh pretended it was my birthday at Brick Oven because it was going to be "the best damn break up [I'd] ever go through" and I was barely able to eat a salad.
I guess it hurt to eat. I guess the thought of when life changes suddenly turns me from food.
It didn't hurt to eat that banana.
But sometimes it does.