Okay, I was like minding my own business, having just finished dinner and I was on my way to a cafe on Polk Street to get a little personal work done when I was approached by a homeless guy. He was tall, fairly slender, dreadlocked, and draped in a blanket. He said he wanted to tell me something and that he wasn't interested in money. So I stopped. My hand in my pocket, wondering what his spiel was going to be and whether or not he would guilt me into giving him money.
He told me that when things were going better for him, he had worked with a Yogi and learned the secret of life -- fasting! He said that eating too much was unhealthy, and led to shit...the more you ate, the more you shit. He then went on to say that one must fast 8 hours a day -- and that sleeping counted. I said, "well, that's easy, I don't eat when I'm in bed!", which was more or less true. Well, most nights if you averaged them out over a year, which makes sense if you really think about it. Really.
Anyway, he told me that when he was doing better, he would get out of bed in the middle of the night and get a piece of chocolate cake or other goodies. All the while, as he spoke, he was looking me up and down and giving me one of those looks that said "you so need to fast, buddy." I felt exposed.
When he came to a stopping point in his tale of bloat, I thanked him for his wisdom and headed for my cafe, ordered my coffee and didn't even look twice at the decadent Butterfinger browines in the glass case.
Sigh. I should have given him money.