Writers and food have a special relationship. While most people think of food as either sustenance or a source of occasional pleasure, artists either see it as poison or use it as some sort of sick anti-muse that inspires you to weep at your misfortune as you measure the width of newly-formed stretch marks.
If you're the kind of artist who thinks of it as poison (that is, a detriment to your artistic process), good for you. You've won the game. It doesn't matter whether you're making ass-loads of cash or poor as a Bolivian emigrant who sees Columbia as the Promised Land. YOU are not ruled by the fridge and that leftover fettuccine your son didn't finish at the Olive Garden last night. Those stale, chalky noodles made of cheese milked from encephalitic hippos will never cross your mind, much less your bowels. Your attention has one less thing to call it away from your life's work. You do not have diarrhea. You now only have 98 problems. Congratufuckinlations. I hate you.
For the rest of us, we fight our brains over food constantly. Writers especially. The job is lonely, sedentary, glorious, and heartbreaking. We also have what you might call bursts of genius interrupted by quick and powerful bouts of depression. I think these happen at a faster clip to us than they do to other creative types. At 8:23 am we will have written the most inspired sentence ever written, and by 9:04 am we will have contracted testicular cancer and contemplated the least painful way to end our lives before the doctors can have a squeeze on the throbbing flesh marble and deliver the bad news, which will (obviously) be: "You should settle your affairs. You have only minutes to live."
In this heightened state of self-pity, the fridge is the nearest and safest thing we can turn to to pull ourselves out of the emotional mire we've stepped in. (Poorly worded sentence. Don't care. Hungry.) Not only will the contents of that fridge have the desired effect of killing us, it will also do it slowly, while satisfying some kind of sick, masochistic need to get off while slowly dying. This kind of suicide is for those who think carbon monoxide poisoning would still be too painful. Or, more likely, it is for people who want all the dramatic revenue from thinking about suicide while really thinking they’re the greatest thing to happen to this world in quite some time.
I hope you weren't thinking I have some sort of solution to this. I don't.
I suppose one solution would be to keep the fridge empty, or at least keep it empty of things that would kill me. Or stop going out to eat between every paragraph.
...Yeaaaaaaah, I could do that.
But what if I get my next brilliant idea while running a freaking train on that Double Double from In N Out? I mean, I wouldn't want to ROB myself of even the humblest of creative ideas right? Who knows what such strands of brilliant thought might lead to? Probably unending wealth and fame.
Well, I'd better keep doing what I'm doing, just to be safe.
And if indeed I do get ideas when I eat, food becomes a tax write off. I'd hate to lose money on this. And what would I gain by undergoing such willful deprivation? Health? A smattering of self-esteem? Pshaw.