A Terrifying Horror Story Your Kale Salad is Trying to Tell You
What if your avocado toast was a time machine? What if that bland, virtuous chicken breast was secretly a superhero in disguise? Gather 'round, oh seekers of vitality and lovers of cheese fries, for a tale of two futures. One is bright, full of energy and effortlessly tying your own shoes. The other... involves a lot of grunting. This is the chilling, thrilling, and slightly sarcastic truth about how the food you eat now is quietly (or not so quietly) building your future body. You've been warned.
Alright, settle in. Grab a snack. May I suggest some carrot sticks? No? A family-sized bag of cheese puffs it is. Don't worry, I can't see you. Yet.
Let me tell you a story about two people. We'll call them Present-Day Pat and Future-You.
Present-Day Pat is a glorious, chaotic creature. Pat operates on a diet composed primarily of hope, caffeine, and whatever can be procured in under three minutes. Pat's digestive system is a noble, long-suffering warrior, facing daily battles against The Great Coffee Flood, The Salty Chip Avalanche, and the dreaded 3 PM Sugar Goblin.
Now, Pat stands at a crossroads. A literal crossroads, right in the middle of the grocery store. To the left, a vibrant, slightly smug-looking display of leafy greens, lean proteins, and things that actually rot if you forget about them for a week. To the right, the glorious, neon-lit aisle of processed joy—where food is shelf-stable, cheese is "a product," and happiness is just a tear-shaped bag away.
This decision, this single, seemingly insignificant moment, is not just about lunch. Oh no. This is the moment Pat chooses the setting for a blockbuster movie titled "The Future-You Chronicles."
Let's explore both cinematic masterpieces, shall we?
SCENARIO A: The "I Ate the Damn Kale" Cut
Pat, sighing dramatically as if auditioning for a tragedy, tosses some spinach into the cart. They buy the chicken breast. They even get the weird, bumpy avocado that feels like it's judging you.
Twenty Years Later... Future-You A emerges. This is not a mythical, gluten-free unicorn. This is a functional human. Let's observe them in their natural habitat:
Morning: Future-You A wakes up. And here's the shocking twist—they don't immediately need a forklift and three coffees to become vertical. Their joints don't sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies when they stand up. They can bend over to tie their shoes without having to plan a strategic breathing technique. It's witchcraft, I tell you.
The Doctor's Visit: They go for a check-up. The doctor looks at their charts, looks at them, looks back at the charts, and says the most terrifying words an adult can hear: "Everything looks... fine. See you next year." There is no dramatic music. No hushed tones about "numbers." It's blissfully, boringly normal.
Energy Levels: Future-You A has the energy to complain about having energy. They can play with their kids/nephews/dogs without having to tap out after five minutes to "check the weather." They can carry all the groceries in one trip—a feat of strength and arrogance that defies the laws of physics.
Brain Function: They remember where they put their keys. They remember why they walked into a room. This alone places them in the top 1% of human cognitive function.
The plot of Future-You A's life isn't about surviving the day; it's about actually living it. The climax is a brisk walk, the resolution is a good night's sleep. It's a critically acclaimed, if slightly predictable, feel-good film.
SCENARIO B: The "But Cheese Puffs are My Personality" Cut
Pat, feeling rebellious and justified, grabs the family-sized bag of glory. The cart is a monument to convenience. The kale weeps softly in the distance.
Twenty Years Later... Future-You B awakens. The sound is not an alarm clock, but a symphony of creaks, groans, and a mysterious pang that may be hunger, may be regret, or may be that third "gas station sushi" experiment from 2027.
Morning: Getting out of bed is a multi-stage, OSHA-violating maneuver involving grip bars, a whispered prayer, and the promise of industrial-strength painkillers. Their knees have their own opinion on the day's forecast. "Rain," they seem to creak. "Definitely rain."
The Doctor's Visit: The doctor uses words like "manageable," "concerning," and "have you ever considered…?" There are pamphlets. So many pamphlets. The soundtrack is a single, ominous cello.
Energy Levels: Future-You B's primary hobby is "conserving spoons." A flight of stairs is a villainous monolith. The idea of "running for a bus" is a hilarious, abstract concept, like time travel or a well-behaved toddler.
Brain Function: They spend a significant portion of their day in a low-grade panic, trying to remember what they forgot. They enter rooms and stand there, a monument to confusion, as their brain, fueled by decades of oxidative stress and sugar crashes, buffers endlessly.
The plot of Future-You B's life is a tragicomedy. The climax is heartburn. The resolution is an antacid.
The Twist Ending
So, what's the moral of our story? Is it that you must never again taste the sweet, sweet nectar of a perfectly cooked french fry? Of course not. That would be a dystopian nightmare.
The real story is that Present-Day Pat is the ghostwriter for Future-You.
Every time you add a vegetable, you're writing a sentence that says, "Hey Future-Me, I got you. You'll be able to get up from this sofa without assistance."
Every time you choose water over liquid candy, you're penning a paragraph that reads, "Your organs will not stage a mutiny. Probably."
You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be the kind of author who doesn't actively sabotage their main character. Toss in a salad. Go for a walk. And for heaven's sake, every once in a while, eat the cheese puffs. Just maybe not the whole family-sized bag before the opening credits are over.
The future is written one bite at a time. Choose your plot wisely.
The End. (Now go drink a glass of water. I'm not your mother, but I am a disembodied voice of judgment from the internet, which is basically the same thing.)
Comments
Post a Comment