Mortality Makes Me Fat

I read somewhere about a study that showed that thinking about death makes people eat more. In other words, knowledge of one's own mortality = fat.

I think that goes a long way toward explaining my predicament. Every time I think about not eating that cookie, I say to myself, well, wait a minute...what if I'm hit by a bus on my way home tonight and this is the very last cookie I will ever eat?

Or maybe it's just that I'm just a pig. On that note, below please find a very old post pondering the joy of hamburgers (redacted to remove name of city I was visiting and edited for brevity). Why am I posting old stuff?

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(Originally posted 2-27-07)

Upon my arrival in [City], I embarked upon a solemn quest, with but one goal in mind: to revisit the burgerly delights of White Castle.

So I did, and it was good. Perhaps you do not fully comprehend the deliciousness of the burger, why movies are made to give praise to its genius.

What you have to understand is this...it is perfection in tiny square hamburger form. It is unlike any other hamburger you will ever find. It is a mystery; it is my muse. The tastes explode in your mouth. The texture is pure ecstasy. The immutable boundaries segregating bread and meat and cheese dissolve, forming a molten core of gooey rapture that violates all laws of man and God and burger cookery.

Plus they added a jalapeño cheese variety.