I think it's a chilling reminder of my mortality, that I am never more than a few hours from that grisly implosion of a death known as starvation. No matter how much I eat, before long the cravings resurface, and the withdrawal symptoms ravage my innards.

"I am Snook Draddots," I would say, were my name actually Snook Draddots, "and I am a food addict."

It's a sad story, but it's true. I was a food baby, in fact. My mother was using when she was pregnant with me. I've been on food ever since. It's wrecked my life.

For my first fifteen years, I experienced rapid weight gain, and the digestive symptoms that persist to this day are too unpleasant to discuss. I've been unable to quit. The patch -- where you duct tape some potato salad to your arm every morning -- doesn't help at all.

One time I had a 16 hour flight across the Pacific, during which time I ate nothing that could be remotely described as food, but I fell off the wagon shortly after landing.

But enough is enough. I've come to an epiphany about just how much I've let food run my life for me, and it's time for that to stop. No more food for me.

I'm quitting food cold turkey.