I found this post here. Ugh, cant even imagine the thought of this. What kind of life defeat do you need to to resort to this....
Reflections on eating oneself - part 1
Fri 12 Nov 2010, 18:02
I knew this guy once. We hung out for about 18 years before he finally ate himself to death.
I had gone to a bar with some friends one evening. We had ourselves a great time. In one of the booths there was this guy who sat by himself, patiently drinking one two-finger brandy after the other. He didn’t look around much the way people do when they’re alone in a bar. Eventually I had to go and get rid of the excess beer and found him at the urinal, quite unstable and pissing with some difficulty.
Turned out he didn’t have a penis. He was also missing three toes and an ear. But that he told me about a week later when we met up at the bar again – his favourite, and just about only hangout place.
After a long contemplative silence, he finally started talking. He told me about the disappointments in his life. He told me how, after each setback, he would choose a part of his body to cut off, and then eat. Given that he was on his 9th or so brandy, I didn’t give his ramblings much thought. Guys say weird things under the influence. I should have listened better, I think. If I had given him any credit, I might not have puked all over my new shoes that night.
Shortly before closing time the waitress came over to take our last orders. He ignored her, didn’t look up once. She was ordinarily attractive, nice smile, tired eyes, sweaty strings of hair in the nape of her neck. But she had an ass to die for. And she knew it. She didn’t walk, she sashayed, voluptuously. I got a martini, drinking buddy another brandy – a four-finger this time. Through the years I learned it was his tell – the give-away – when he considered divesting himself of another apparently unneeded body part.
As the waitress swung back to the bar, he leaned closer over the table and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m cutting of my left hand tonight, wanna come see?”
“Sure,” I grinned drunkenly.
“Well, bottoms up then!” He winked at me and picked up the glass in his left hand. He looked at the light falling through the glass, twisting his wrist this way and that. He pensively stroked the cold glass with his thumb, and then with a quick flick he poured the brandy down his throat, got up, and made for the door.
I had watched his little tour de force with a mouth hanging off its hinges. The damn guy had actually been saying goodbye to his hand! Eloquently, too - if one can say that about moving fingers. My martini went down the hatch, the olive caught between my front teeth. I followed him out into the cold night air. He was already a few meters ahead, his missing toes no impediment to his rush to get home, and cut, cut, cut.
He lived in a semi-detached house a few blocks away. The rooms were Spartan with no personal knick-knacks on display. He flicked a switch, and opened a door in the hallway. A sterilized neon light shone on a flight of stairs leading down to the basement. It looked like an operating room – which it was. IV units, gauze, bandages, syringes, scalpels, scissors all neatly packed away in glass-fronted cabinets. An operating table, a drain, a sink, scrub brushes and anti-septic soaps. It was all meticulous and sickeningly efficient.
“I’m an orderly at the provincial hospital,” he explained over his shoulder, as he scrubbed himself down.
I leant back against the sink. Looked at this guy. Looked him up and down, and tried to comprehend how a trip to the bar could have turned into this.
He snapped the latex glove on his right hand. Pulled a tourniquet tight over his biceps. He filled a syringe with anaesthetic and injected it into the sacrificial limb.
He whistled while he waited for his hand to lose all feeling.
Repulsed, yet dying of curiosity, I leaned closer.
Everything he needed lay ready on a tray.
He picked up a scalpel and made the first incision – a half moon over the top of his hand to leave skin for a flap to close the stump. The cut remained white for a second before the blood welled up thickly. He lifted the flap, somewhat clumsily, and held it away from the rest of the hand with a clamp.
I puked when his hand finally dropped away from his arm, and he chucked it carelessly into the small sink.
Up until that point I could convince myself that not a single moment was truly real, but the THUNK of the hand hitting the sink… Man, it hit me right under the ribs.
Buddy looked up at me.
Waiting to see the next instalment with much angst...