Why? Because, fuck Angelina Jolie.
Next season's blockbuster: Salt Vs Pepper Ann. Whoever wins, we lose. |
I’m actually not on the rant about the mystery woman of the year. No. I’m here to talk about something even more powerful – more powerful than Jolie’s boobs themselves (the left one is called Agnes, the other, Rightie). I’m here to talk about…
Table salt.
I just reverse-came. |
It has many names: Sodium Chloride, Salt, White Magic, Hot-Chip-Make-Betterer, Wondergrains and Coacaindiment to name a few. In an attempt to sleep before a big day I made a decision.
I am going to cut down on my salt intake.
I have realized that enough is enough and salt cannot dictate what I want to eat. No more shall I be its slave, working in the salt mines of mindless salt consummation. I have fallen prey to the salt demon and I shall explain in my documentation of this process.
Hour One:
I couldn’t get to sleep. The salt was calling me. It’s chorus chanted ceaselessly within the realms of my mind. My tongue anticipated the longing of its tang. The taste that will satisfy the greatest and most demanding of pleasurable urges for now. I simulated various encounters with my grainy demon. Salt graciously poured over perfectly fried golden chips. Their illuminant golden texture slowly was abased with the cascading wealth of white shimmering particles. My mouth watered. Then another vision seamlessly tacked on to the last. I was enjoying myself in a pub taking the first taste of the first cutlet of my prime and well-endowed beef schnitzel. As I was exploring the delights of such a manly meal I found myself dissatisfied. I reached over the nondescript table and grabbed myself a small glass container with an S inscribed on it – Comic Sans style. I shake it, sparingly, over my schnitzel and go for another taste. This time, I am satisfied, and I have the salt to thank. I am enjoying the now-instilled zest of my Schniztel in slow motion like an advertisement about the deliciousness of chocolate or the wonders of life insurance for seniors.
There’s nothing like staying up late at night to watch funeral and life insurance adverts that reminds us we’re dying soon! |
I get up, unnerved by all these strange feelings. I put myself out of bed and check my watch. It is currently 11:52PM. I went to bed an hour and a half ago. I grunt and heave my lumbering torso towards my desk and lift up the laptops top. I push the power button and await for it to start up.
I make my way to Google.
“How do you cure a salt addiction?” I type in the search bar.
Google displays various links to many barely adequate websites telling me things that I know already. I always have high expectations of Google, and that isn’t saying very much. The tabs to these links are quickly closed.
“Salt substitutes” I inquire again. This time I come across very marketable products that are on a website that clearly outlines why regular salt is terrible for you and why theirs is better. I come across the line ‘...our salt has the same toxicity as regular salt…’ and then I deny the site, clicking that lovely little red X in the corner. Their shitty scare-based 'ours is better than yours' marketing tactics won’t work with me.
We have 100% less puppy tears in our salt compared to our competitors! |
The urges haven’t left at this point. All I know is that the taste buds are all demanding in unison for something to satisfy their need. They need the white stuff – their ravenous claims remain insatiable. I remember times in the past where I have overindulged the salt quota. There was that period in my life when I put my salt on toast. Instead of any spreads, I shook some Chippy Salt on it. Back then that made me realize toast seemed to be pretty good. In retrospect that is an incredibly dumb decision that only a moron would do.
My tongue rebelled. It was about to pull itself from the muscles holding it in and escape the confines of my mouth in order to inundate itself in copious amounts of HeroiNaCl. I had to decline its request, but also appease it somehow.
<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4tML1z720C4?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="344"></iframe>
-Fuck you link! Here's the video until I figure this stuff out-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tML1z720C4Push me, and then just touch me, till I can get my - salt-inundation.
I stealthily trotted to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard, hoping for something to appease my aching senses. Here I discover some easy-to-make Oats. I read the cover. It had my favourite flavor: flavourless. I shrugged in indifference. I was planning to put honey in it anyway. I look around for any alternatives and eye a packet of Mi Goreng noodles. Mi Goreng is epitome of a cheap delicious meal featuring salt and some other ingredients thrown in there.
I need you inside me. |
"Hah!" I think, condescendingly to the inanimate junk food "You thought you could tempt me into submission to your sublime and e(x/r)otic essence? I'll make an example of you by NOT eating you!”
I make off to prepare my Oats in its bowl. I fill half a glass of prescribed milk using it as a measuring tool and pour it into the Oats. I put it into the microwave for two minutes. I check the pack again and reread the instructions.
“Put in microwave for 90 seconds?” I bat an eyelid, or perhaps both. “I’ll just rescue my Oats when there’s 30 seconds to go”. Evidently I am not a persnickety chef. I go onto my nearby computer and look up Sodium on Wikipedia. Then I learn that the proper term is Sodium Chloride. After a few more moments dawdling, I recall: I had something microwaving! I rush back and punch the ‘pause/stop’ button.
“29 seconds left?” I think to myself. “That was lucky”. I open the microwave and find that, even within near-perfect time restraints, I have failed myself. The Oats have overflowed and I have myself to blame. I curse the milk silently and, using a tea towel, clumsily handle the hot steaming bowl out of the microwave. I land it onto the bench in a muttering cacophony of ‘ooh’s and ‘ow’s. I clean up the Oat mess.
It’s okay. Someone will clean it in the morning. |
The cat barges through the cat flap. She approaches me and lets out a persistent and repeated cry of ‘Meow’. Domino was signifying that she demands sustenance. I envy the life of a cat as much as I feel obliged to feed her black-and-white feline arse. I find a half-empty can in the fridge and walk past the eternally-meowing cat to her designated eating spot. As I rush a step forward she moves in front of my leg and I kick her somewhat.
“You goddamn stupid cat. This is why we humans build skyscrapers and you cats get more hits on Youtube than any person ever could”.
I fork out the food, wash my hands and return to the Oats. They are still warm. I go to the cupboard and select the honey. I go to the Oats and squeeze the ever-loving shit out of the bottle. A slow steady thin stream seeps out. I notice a distinctly unique smell as I had finished pouring at least an eighth of the bottle in. This isn’t honey. I look at the label.
“Maple Fucking Syrup?” I utter in half disgust, half curiosity. I look on the ingredients.
“And you’re containing 23mg of sodium” I murmer. I felt the pangs of defeat. I know that the Mi Goreng is laughing at me with its sick clownish guffaw that is half-muffled by its gurgling and twisted throat. I swear I can hear the shake of salt shakers coming from the hallway. It was low at first, and then it was getting louder. Sauntering down the steps and approaching me. My ever questionable sanity had finally had enough. I had to settle this once and for all.
This is the brink of insalinity. |
I make it to the computer and I put Google to work again.
“Salt needed per day” I send. I look up my first few hits. According to this website, if it’s to be believed, I need at least 1500 mg of sodium a day. I sigh in relief. The Maple Fucking Syrup wasn’t the end of times. I return to squeeze the shit out of it again. I make my way back onto the computer and begin to continue research on the properties of Sodium Chloride. I have my first taste of Oats and it is barely adequate. I return to the kitchen and squeeze an enormous amount of Golden Shittin’ Syrup into my Oat meal.
“This is gonna be a long war” I saw to myself, with a half smile on my face. “A very, very, very long war.”
Short, inexpensive and painless is long, costly and agonizing. |
I return to the computer, eat my Oats and type an article from 12:47AM ti’ll 2:40 AM.
Fun stuff!
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