And I’m enjoying it every bit as much as the last time. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help wondering how something so viscerally wonderful can possibly be bad for me. . .
It’s not like I planned to do it. I was actually doing something else entirely when it hit me: it’s been a couple weeks since I last did it; I have the time; nobody will notice; and it makes me feel so good. . . so why not do it? And so I did, with a secret, elicit thrill. (Even though there’s absolutely *nothing * wrong with it.)
Of course, the two-week hiatus made it so much more enjoyable; it was like an explosive release of pressure - pressure I wasn’t even consciously aware of, until I let go.
Now I’m satiated, sitting here contentedly pondering how often I could do this before it became “unhealthy”. One part of me wants to do it more often, but another part of me realizes that part of the thrill is the waiting – anticipation, expectation, desire, all roiling around just beneath the level of conscious thought until one fine morning (such as this one) when I realize: it’s been long enough; do it. They say that a great deal of sensual pleasure is derived not from the physical senses but from the mind, and I believe it; I do.
I’m sure bacon isn’t bad for you, it’s worrying about eating bacon that actually causes heart disease and all that bad stuff.
My Grandad lived to be nine hundred and fourty three and always ate an entire pig’s worth of bacon each morning cooked in lard. It never killed him because he didn’t worry about the health issues involved. If the butcher hadn’t caught him with the butcher’s wife he would have made a thousand easily.
Homer: So, you think you know better than this family, huh? Well, as long as your in my house, you’ll do what I do, and believe what I believe. [the camera pans to reveal that Homer is talking to Bart] So butter your bacon!
Bart: Yes, father. [does so]
Lisa: Mom, Dad, my spiritual quest is over.
Homer: Hold that thought. [to Bart] Bacon up that sausage, boy.
Bart: Dad, my heart hurts. [Homer glares at him] Ohh. [wraps a slice of bacon around a sausage link and eats it]
That’s not a lack of a life, that’s dedication! That’s. . . . .well, admittedly, close to a lack of a life. But! We’re not going to focus on that! We’re going to call it dedication, and if you disagree, we will slice you up into strips, salt you, and fry you and pass you off as turkey bacon.
[sub]Note: I actually like turkey bacon, and pretty much anything that claims to be bacon except for the dog treats. I did try one once, and it was the last time I did that. What filthy liars those dog food people are, claiming their stuff tastes close to bacon.[/sub]
