Baby’s got snack

As we all know my coping mechanisms aren’t as refined as they perhaps should be for a person of my age and station. We all know I like to have a cocktail and a flirt/snog when I’m down in the dumps. We all know that I’m prone to make out with the inappropriately stupid, or young, or semi-stinky - particularly when my ego is up on blocks. What you may not know  (it came as a bit of a shock to me) was the snacking issue. You know those women who waste away when their hearts are broken? Who can’t eat or sleep or apply blush? I am not one of them. No, it turns out that in between moans and theatrical sighs, all I want to do is eat and sleep. Nor do I look pale and drawn. I am as healthy as a horse (and will weigh nearly as much if I keep this up). Ali and I agree that if I’m going to be eating my feelings, I should at least attempt to keep it gourmet. It’s one thing to sob my way through a delicate pear tart, but the minute I tear into a box of Hostess or Enteman’s is the minute that the whole thing becomes a trailer tragedy