Wanting will

I want to bury my face in a bowl of pasta, suffocating my satiation like a dam in a river, saluting the knowledge that my desires will deliver me lifeless.

I want to position a noose around my neck and violently erupt from the rooftops, drip-dropping until I emerge into utter stillness.

David Foster Wallace's last written thought: no more words.

Emphasis.

I will not eat over this.  This minute, this second, I will not eat over this.  I will raise my own expectations for you and be strong, so that you will love me.