I always knew I was being played – milked – deceived – used – screwed over by the food industry. But I don’t know that I wanted to know just how or how much. I knew enough to steer clear. There was always an ominous sort of image in my mind, the clang of a feedlot gate, the chemical smells of the lurid gels that are pumped into what’s shrinkwrapped to last months and advertised with the calculations of an army of psychologists and devoured without a single thought. Of aliens in lab coats speaking telepathically about the newest ways they could manipulate my taste buds and addict me to something only they knew how to make. And imagining – that was enough to keep me away. But now I’m scared. I’m horrified, and you’re making me feel that food – all food – is my enemy, Mr. Kessler. You’re Hitchcock. You’ve taken the horror out of the toxic swamp and put it in my kitchen. And I don’t trust myself any longer. I feel vulnerable and wicked, and now when I say I’ll die if I don’t have a bit of chocolate, I feel I’m part of the scheme you’re explaining to me. I’m sure this is your intent, sir. But there’s a part of me that’s covering my eyes to it. Because this is as frightening as any sort of guilt you could press to me. This is something I love. And you’re making me scared of it. I’m not trying to be childish or flippant – I feel like I’m reading about people’s problems with control and becoming more susceptible to the same with every word. I don’t object to being made to question my actions. But I don’t appreciate being made to feel with such vicious logic how my every pleasure is just a turn of a cog in this horrific machine. You make me want to apologize for liking to eat, even though I know that’s not your aim. Maybe I’m just another consumer who doesn’t want to see the facts. But I feel like you’re spoiling something beautiful, and I want to talk about something else today.