My young onions, I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. So if you are faint of heart or are one of those people who feels very deeply or anything like that, turn away now. Because what I am about to say will shock you. Possibly to your very core.
I have lost my appetite.
I know! I know! I can scarcely believe it myself. But I began chemo — which is what we cancer-riddled sophisticates call “poison” — yesterday, and, well, there it is. At dinner the horrible truth revealed itself to my astonished self and to my even more astonished companions, who had never before witnessed such a tragic spectacle. I tried, but could not eat, a crabcake. I could not eat jicama slaw. I could not eat an olive.
Enquiries were anxiously made. Would I, perhaps, prefer a taco?
If you are new to I Blame The Patriarchy, The Patriarchy-Blaming Blog That Never Misses Dinner, you may be unaware that I harbor feelings of unsurpassed warmth, reverence, and admiration for the taco. In fact, I consider the taco, more so than the Friend to whom the poet alluded, to be nature’s masterpiece (Emerson, I am pretty sure, died taco-less).
So perhaps you will understand the depth of my wretchedness when I tell you that I had to pop off and puke in the middle of writing the above paragraph, so suddenly and indefatigably horrific to my newly toxified innards is the very concept of the taco.
Holy fuckin moly!
Today I also received what friends and family have been trying to convince me is good news, which is that a test ordered by my highly trained obstreperologist to determine the extent to which the disease has invaded other key bodily organs has come back negative. Meaning that I am expected to survive.
Which, on the surface, sounds pretty good. But think about it. A taco-less future. What, I ask you, is the point?
And I ask this as not as an oilier-than-thou food critic or a glib gourmand, but as a spinster aunt who has spent the past weeks looking long into the abyss, and noting –if I may be permitted to mix my dead male philosophers–with no little fear and loathing, that the abyss has looked back.