Notes (from) on the author

After being awake and occupied for several hours now, the urge to 'breakfast' has only just begun to rile me with some severity. I boil a pan of milk and water, looking at the packet of flavoured, powdered, pasta that I intend to indulge in. The 'best before' date tells me that it ran out approximately four months ago, and as I tip the pack into the pan, I notice the debris looks discoloured. Black are the flakes that were once, supposedly, meant to represent broccoli and the scented cheese flakes look like ground sawdust. An emaciated pig, I was jokingly called once. Not prudent about eating 'off' food, and frail in figure as I am, I consider the juxtaposition to be an accurate portrayal. My stomach rumbles my muscles and the convulsion makes me feel sick. I retreat to my room for a while as the smell of food lingers and wafts, overriding the smell of my father that's since invaded my space after I accepted a couple of garments from him that have ever flitted upon my conscious, reminding me of him. Everything drifts in my mind: my plans, my goals, my desires. I must do this, I'll do this first, and then there's this. This and this and everything. I've been eating 'bad' food for months now- at least weeks- and it hasn't killed me yet.