Dear Reader,

I’ve heard your pleas, begging me to grow up, and I’ve finally decided to do something about them. Enough is enough. That’s right, the time has come for me to take responsibility and stop blaming my problems on anything other than processed foods.

I probably should’ve put down the packet of refined grain and come to this conclusion a long time ago, but I was too busy gorging myself on what might as well be poison (at least hemlock comes from the ground!) to comprehend what I was doing. I’m happy to announce that I’m now in a place where I can admit that all my life’s ills are the combined fault of the world’s biggest food companies. To prove it, here are some of my specific failings that are directly linked to my reliance on artificial foodstuffs:

Being born without the ability to walk:
Before I could even eat my first KitKat fingers, I was the victim of processed food. My poor mother, who didn’t know any better, ate smoky bacon crisps throughout her entire pregnancy. (It was the late eighties!) As a result, it took me nine to twelve months to stand upright and start getting around on my own. Have you ever seen a baby giraffe plop into the world? Those babies are practically ballroom dancing within hours of being born. What do mother giraffes eat? Not Coco Pops and Frosted Shreddies, I’ll tell you that much.



Throwing up on the bus to school:
I’d bet my weight in chia seeds that children were not spewing on buses five hundred years ago. What’s changed? Oh, I don’t know—maybe what kids are eating? If I had been dared to scoff down a hundred organic cherry tomatoes that I had planted and picked myself instead of a hundred jellybabies that I found hidden in the rip of the seat in front me, I likely still would’ve got sick, but the color of my vomit would’ve been a whole lot different. Purple sick simply isn’t natural. You have no idea how traumatising it is to find out about artificial dyes at such a young age.

Showing up late to my Aunties funeral: I know they’re called ‘Flame Grilled‘ Rustler Burgers, but I’d like to suggest a rebrand, because these microwaveable meals are covered with molten cheese lava, which is why I was forced to stop at Tesco for a Magnum, even though I knew that the service had already started. After all, it’s hard to mourn when your tongue is on fire. Come to think of it, my Aunty is the one who introduced me to frozen foods section, she loved her treats. Maybe taunting those tigers at the zoo had less to do with her demise than the TV-dinner billionaires want us to think. . . .

Being unlovable: How am I supposed to keep someone in my life when high-fructose corn syrup has the door to my heart stuck shut? That’s just a metaphor about how artificial sweetener can sour your emotional well-being, but the physical stickiness from eating, say, sushi you made by wrapping Rice Krispie Squares and Jelly Beans in a Kellogg’s Fruit Winder could make it really difficult to swipe on Tinder if (read:when) my other half decides to leave me. And good luck finding the energy to sign up for eHarmony after a sugar crash.

Getting banned from every T.G.I Fridays in The UK: Yes, I might’ve had one too many Sangria ’Ritas and then taken a bowling pin off the wall and tried to act out that scene from “There Will Be Blood” on an unsuspecting waiter, but I also didn’t see any farm-to-table items on the menu.

Now you understand—my problems and processed foods are more closely joined than a can of those bright red linked hotdog sausages. Sure, maybe all of this is just me trying to justify my ten-quid-a-day smoothie habit, but I’ll tell you one thing: I haven’t felt this good in years, and it’s all thanks to cutting not-blaming-processed-foods-for-everything out of my life.

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