Please enjoy the conclusion to last weeks tiny story about addiction. Today we find out – in simple, logical steps – where such an addiction would end. As always, comments and suggestions are welcome.
Missed last week? Read it HERE
Just like those addicts, I can’t get high any more. I lived my addiction so fully that I developed a tolerance against it. The ordinary world lost its colour years ago – I don’t even remember when – and now even the most succulent steak just tastes like mashed fucking potatoes.
Junkies can increase dosage or concentration. Well, the former won’t work – I can’t just keep increasing the dosage until my heart gives out; it’s the taste I crave, not the volume. The latter is also difficult – I mean, when you’ve already tasted the finest dishes in the world two or three times, where do you go from there?
One solution was presented to me by this high-flying sex columnist I used to know. “Taboos, darling” – those were his exact words – “break a few taboos; all the old feelings just come rooooaaaaring back.” He was a smoker, come to think of it, with a face like a wolf. “Middle-aged couples are always the kinkiest. Once they’ve gotten bored with vanilla, things start to get really interesting . . .”
Perhaps now, perhaps later, you’ll fire up your favourite search engine and have a little look at ‘Food Taboos’. There are lots, I think you’ll find. Not all of them are relevant – for example, we can forget the eating of pork. I’m not religious, so pork is just meat. Others, though . . . veal calves, living dishes, endangered species, the list goes on.
He was right, old Mr Wolf. The taboo aspect of the food excited that part of my brain that bypassed my tastebuds, a primeval part of my brain that was pure pleasure, and I could taste again – for a while. Although I made sure to start small – a lavish dinner of delicious, unethically-reared foie gras, for example – by the end, I was eating pre-formed, hairless panda bear, poached in its own embryonic sac. And even that wasn’t doing it for me.
I began to crave death.
I so dearly wished that I could overload the syringe, stick the needle in my vein, and let my addiction kill me. I had seen it happen enough times. But I couldn’t, and I knew the next step was cannibalism, and even I have my limits. There simply had to be a way for taste to end my life. I wrestled with the problem for weeks; I lost sleep; I began to lose weight. As I looked at the bones stretching at the skin, I had a moment of clarity – finally, I knew it: the final taboo.
So, this is my note, if you like. A willing – if a little perverted – chef has been found, and lasts night’s little appetiser has proven two things: that the drugs I have acquired are effective, and that my skills as a nurse have not yet left me. My only regret is that we didn’t start with my foot, because then this letter would have taken a fraction of the time to write, and we wouldn’t have had to delay tonight’s entrées.