I Deserve a Fucking KitKat

The KitKat is still on my desk.

Five days now, if I’ve counted right. Same one from the doughnut evening. It hasn’t moved, and neither have I, not in the way that matters.

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I keep expecting the feeling to be about hunger. It isn’t. It’s not even really about wanting to eat a KitKat specifically.

It’s closer to: I deserve a fucking KitKat.

I’ve done a full day’s work. Sat here, done the difficult bits, answered the emails I didn’t want to answer, and somewhere in my head that adds up to a debt owed. Not by anyone in particular. Just a general sense that effort should be followed by something, and the something has always, for as long as I can remember, been food.

Mounjaro didn’t touch that feeling. It just took away the hunger that used to arrive alongside it, so now the feeling turns up on its own, with nothing underneath it.

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Somewhere along the way, this stopped being a straightforward battle and turned into something closer to a game.

I sit at my desk all day, working, and the KitKat sits there too. I’m not white-knuckling it the whole time — most of the day I genuinely forget it’s there. But every so often I’ll look up, see it, and there’s a specific little moment where I think: right, how much longer.

Not “will I eat it.” More like watching how long I can leave it there while I get on with everything else. It’s turned into its own small experiment, running quietly in the background of an ordinary working day.

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I don’t think that’s a healthier relationship with food. I think it might just be a more interesting one.

I still feel like I deserve it. That hasn’t gone anywhere. What’s changed is that “I deserve it” and “I’m going to eat it” have come slightly unstuck from each other, and most days now there’s just enough of a gap between the two to notice it happening.

I’m learning. Not cured.

The KitKat’s still there to prove it.