The Great Cool Ranch Dorito in the Sky: Chapters 36–40

“I don’t know if you’re ready to know about this yet, but I’m just going to plant a seed in your brain right now. You don’t need to do anything with the seed. It might even be better if you try to avoid the seed for now. It can just sit there in your humble little brain garden until the day comes when you might be ready to water it.”

But I will tell you the first lesson you need to learn, especially because you’re a man. Diet culture, which is rooted in white supremacy and capitalism, teaches women that they’re supposed to look a certain way, that their value comes from their desirability in the eyes of men.

This is one very effective way patriarchy keeps women in the chains of servitude.

“Have you been doing your reading? Patriarchy is a societal model that favors men, particularly cis straight white able-bodied neurotypical ones.”

Yet another thing Mallory would berate me for.

Otherwise, I was just another kid in the system who bounced around to three foster homes, places I only remember in dappled, impressionistic images, gauzy flashes of disjointed memory that come seemingly from nowhere whenever I smell a particular shampoo or cleaning product—Lysol makes my skin crawl; Dawn dish soap bums me out.

She’d say the reader’s time is valuable and I owe him specificity and brevity.

It was supposed to feature a chaise longue upholstered in aubergine velvet upon which I would be hypnotized by a swinging pocket watch pulled from Dr. Bradford’s pinstriped waistcoat.

Instead of an ancient and studious Austrian weighed down by tweed, which would have delighted me, Dr. Bradford —Kenny, I guess—seems younger than Marcus, fit and handsome.

Kenny shakes his head nearly imperceptibly, like he’s afraid he might get caught sharing forbidden knowledge.

“Some scientific studies do suggest foods, especially sugar, can be addictive, but none of those findings actually hold up to scrutiny because their scientific methodology is not sound or cannot provide conclusive results. So the short answer is no. Food addiction isn’t real. There are plenty of circumstances that might make one feel he’s addicted to food, though.”

“Some scientific studies do suggest foods, especially sugar, can be addictive, but none of those findings actually hold up to scrutiny because their scientific methodology is not sound or cannot provide conclusive results. So the short answer is no. Food addiction isn’t real. There are plenty of circumstances that might make one feel he’s addicted to food, though.” 

I’m so thrown that I have to reach through the chaos in my mind to find the question I was originally planning to ask, which I ask anyway, even though it seems redundant based on the confidence Kenny brings to the subject matter.

“Sorry. Am I allowed to cuss? I have a pretty foul mouth, but I can rein it in if —” “Cussing is fine. Your trepidation is to be expected. You’ve been facing this on your own for a long while, as I understand it. I assure you, treating disordered eating is within my areas of expertise. And I will never suggest you abstain from food. Ever.”

Even though I saw this coming, I’m immediately overwhelmed by the idea of expanding my treatment—just getting to this chair in this office has been such a fraught journey—but I’m starting to like Kenny.

I like how candid he is, and I like that he might be the first person I’ve met who hasn’t pressured me to do anything or say anything I don’t want to do or say.

My friendship garden, which was never terribly fertile, seems utterly barren now—evidenced by the fact that I’ve signed a year-long lease at the outcast picnic table where only the socially awkward kids sit, guys who can’t even fit in with the theater thugs or mathletes or ganja gang.

Robyn swallows in a labored way, like her mouth is full of peanut butter.

Perhaps Robyn is psychic on top of all her other talents, or perhaps she’s merely speaking about the phenomenon in the everyday sense, like when you embellish an anecdote to make yourself look better or someone else look worse.

Perhaps Robyn is psychic on top of all her other talents, or perhaps she’s merely speaking about the phenomenon in the everyday sense, like when you embellish an anecdote to make yourself look better or someone else look worse.

“When I read what you wrote, I made up a story. In that story, you were someone who would be healed through helping others in similar pain. I was the good-hearted philanthropist who would facilitate this healing, and would therefore get to write about what I’d accomplished in several scholarship essays, leading to a memorable tenure in the Ivy League.”

I didn’t know Robyn had the capacity for jocular banter, but maybe I should have.

I never thought I’d say it, but something akin to compassion stirs in my chest.

It’s hard to buy that my social rating isn’t as abysmal as I imagine, but maybe my self-esteem has taken too many hits to see clearly anymore.

Mallory’s delivery is matter-of-fact, not cruel, but her words still sting.