If you spend enough days sitting there, letting all the stimulation run you and convince yourself that it's alright not to feel, that it's fine not to get worked up and there's no reason to stress, you'll probably live longer. You can sit there in your rocking chair when you're 87, thinking of all the places you still want to go and reading my obituary. Our obituaries. Of all those people who died 10 years before you because they often stressed out and got worked up. They stared others down ferociously; they let their hormones get the best of them while drinking Pepto-Bismol by the bottle to handle those stomach stress pains. They let themselves live on the edge, even though they were peeing their pants.
There's a fire growing in my belly. A real fire. The kind that makes you want to give up everything you have for something you love, for something you believe in.
Ferocious. I want to be ferocious. I want to narrow my eyes into slits, grit my teeth, and tighten my stomach while moving like a tiger. When people see me, I want them to go: "Whoa, where did that come from?" - "From my belly", I'll tell them.
That's where everything you want coming from. It's the center of desire. You think it's a coincidence that the place you feel hunger is the same place you feel your fucking fear? Not a coincidence at all.The next time someone tells you to just be happy with what you've got, smack them across their ordinary face. Love your life. Fill it up. Never stop filling it up. Fill it up with everything that's significant and a couple things that aren't, just for some contrast. Let stuff go (make sure it's important stuff). Let it hurt when it's gone. Let it cut a nasty hole in your life. Then patch it up in a sloppy way and keep on going. Don't ever be full. Tomorrow, I'm going to wake up and my stomach isn't going to grow; it's going to roar. I will feel something that I haven't felt in a long time. I'm going to feel empty, but empty with an appetite. And God be with anyone who gets between me and my meal.
