I’ve been naughty. Quite naughty. Cheeky even.

I’ve been bad.

*insert a visual of Rebekah drawing her pinky up to the corner of her mouth. Mischievous grin*

Lately, I’ve eaten—quite frankly—everything. I’ve eaten everything. Sofa cushions. Golf balls. Hand soap… Let’s just say, don’t look for Fluffy, because Fluffy ain’t there. Fluffy went for The Long Walk.

*spits out a mouthful of fur and dabs her lip with an elegant silk napkin*

I’m surprised the house is still standing, to be honest. Those supporting beams have been looking mighty tasty.

All this begs the question: am I a piglet?

Have you ever thought that of yourself?

Am I a human piglet? A eater of worlds? A swallower of dreams? A barbecuer of Fluffies everywhere?

Dude, I want BBQ so bad.

See?! This. This is what I’m talking about! I am ruled by my incessant cravings, unsatisfiable hunger, and the borderline nauseating lengths I will go to to have a snack.

The other day, I found a mysterious cup of applesauce in the kangaroo pouch of my sweatshirt.

And I ate it.

It was warm.

But it wasn’t like it was open or anything.

Have you ever bought one of those bags of prepackaged cotton candy at the store?

Yeah?

Have you ever opened it, eaten half, and put the rest back in the pantry? No zip lock seal, just a barely rolled up tinfoil bag?

Yeah?

Have you ever forgotten about it but found it a week later, hard and crispy, and still ate it?

Hey. Tone it down. I can sense the judgment rising. I’m not saying I did it. I’m asking if YOU’VE done it.

(It’s like eating sugary, blue, three year old dry wall, if you’re wondering.)

One of the true indications of pigletism, in my opinion, is found within the types of dreams you have. Dreams tell all: your deepest desires, fears, worries.

I’m constantly dreaming that a gorgeous philanthropist visits the house and leaves a box of freshly glazed donuts on our kitchen table. The box is clean, pink, and meticulously folded, no creases or tears. I can hear the angel’s chorus. The moment I’m alone, I begin wrapping donuts in paper towel and stashing them behind old mugs, between bags of cereal, and under my pillow to eat later.

Then I wake up.

Other dreams, I’m at an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet, with one thought on my mind.

I wake up feeling guilty, then rejoice in the fact that I didn’t really consume all that sugar, fat, and calories.

Except, for the rest of the day, I turn into a Russian mafia leader until I’m fed anything covered with chocolate or frosting.

Finally, the last indication of pigletism is found in the inappropriate moments you decide are good moments for a snack.

For example,

• The shower
• The gym
• In the middle of church service
• While you’re heroically saving someone who’s fainted

• During a motherly scolding
• When someone close to you needs your undivided attention

The moment I stepped into the shower with a fistful of goldfish crackers in my hand, simultaneously turning on the water and stuffing my cheeks, I knew.

I am a piglet.

Yes. I’m a piglet. A eater of worlds. A swallower of dreams. A barbecuer of Fluffies everywhere.

… Dude, I want BBQ so bad.

 

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