It's almost 11:00 p.m. and I'm the only one up. I'm not really ready for bed, I've got a lot of thoughts rolling around my head. Lord, please don't let this be one of those nights where I never go to bed.

Some sort of stimulation seems to be in order.

I considered some toffee liqueur. We've got a large bottle taking up room in the fridge. I auditioned it by setting it upon the counter, but it didn't make the cut. So back it goes, taking up room where a warehouse-sized ketchup bottle would be better served.

I considered some rum and ginger ale. No, that really doesn't seem right either. The ginger ale part is working well for me though.

So since starting to write this, mere minutes have passed and the gnawing has begun. Something to eat. Something to chew and swallow. I really don't care if it is carbs or protein, or just fat. Cheese sounds good, as does some of the leftover roast.

I am having a hard time equating the eating feelings with being disgusting. This idea was recently presented to me, but I am not buying it. While I feel disgusted when I see myself in the mirror, I do not feel disgusting when I am eating.

If I were to get out the roast or some cheese and eat some, I would feel (as sick as it seems to even type this) loved and cared for. That is what my head is saying right now anyway. If I were to eat, it wouldn't really be that bad for me, after all I was so good today. Just like every other day, until the night comes and the gnawing feeling overcomes my willpower.

David equates being fed to being loved and cared for as well. Funny, I don't see it as sick when he reacts that way. I guess it is because it is okay for a person without a weight issue to have a love of food. But when I make food for David, or have his dinner ready when he comes home, I know that he feels love from me.

So is food love? Is love food?