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            It is personally ironic that the first essay for Prose Composition would have to be on Food - a topic I had practically no interest in until just over a year ago. No interest?' you ask, How is that possible, considering food is needed to live?'. Well not to turn this essay into some kind of Christian confessional, but until about a year ago, I was, technically, anorexic. .
             I use the world technically', because when anorexia' is uttered to most individuals, the mind conjures up images of supermodels hunched over toilet bowls, throwing up the foie gras they had at Hugh Hefner's place last night. Most major dictionaries, however, define the former as bulimia', and my anorexic case as "as disorder of eating due to loss of appetite-.
             Let me assure you that the reasons why this came about wasn't some kind of twisted tale about how my parents used to lock me in the cellar with some water and a turnip, but rather it was more of a self-inflicted problem that had taken place for longer than I can remember. Breakfast was never a staple in my diet considering the fact that most days I used to (and still do) wake up 20 minutes before school started. Lunch was a different matter - I recall in my primary years how my parents used to pack me terrible sandwiches that I used to dispose of immediately at lunchtimes, opting for nothing instead, and eventually getting used to the routine of having only dinner.
             So for around 10 years, my daily diet consisted of, more or less, one meal a day. It didn't seem to physically affect me to that great an extent, as it took place for over half of my life. I could still eat when it was necessary, except I could only eat when I was hungry. I figured that this was the way life should be: people eating when they needed to, rather than when it was convenient for them. In my own mind, I thought I had solved obesity. And then, two things changed my views on culinary delights that, consequently, turned me into the pot-bellied bastard I am now.

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