A Warewolf Has Needs

My jaw has been smashed into lots of tiny pieces.

My drugs are running out.

Fuck.

I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.

For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.

Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.



The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.

I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’

Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.

This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.

Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.