text: There's a hunger that starts as desire, evolves into a sharp pain, then descends into nausea. No, This was not that sort of hunger. This was far, far worse. I had a dog once that had eaten four large rocks. Not pebbles. These were landscaping stones. I didn't know until she threw them up one by one. Each was three to four inches long, roughly an inch in diameter, and not at all smooth. According to the vet, she had a gastro-intestinal disorder that caused her brain to believe she was starving no matter how much food she had eaten. "In that state," she said, "she will eat anything just to feel satisfied." Even rocks. I'm at least that hungry. Fortunately, I understand a bit more about the risk versus reward of consuming my home's curb appeal than Xena, my warrior princess doggo. But, the feeling is still the same. I rummage loudly through the fridge. It's early, or late. I haven't slept, so I'm unsure what to call it. Whichever it is, I know my timing and volume are matched inappropriately because my boyfriend calls out to me through a sleepy fog to ask if everything is alright. A nearly incoherent worry paints his voice at first, but it quickly shifts to irritation when the obnoxious "beep" of the oven being set to 425o reveals my intentions. I've decided on a frozen pizza. The oven takes too long to preheat, so I begin snacking on handfuls of peanuts, pouring myself a glass of milk while crushing the nuts to butter between my teeth. \ I don't know how long I've been lying here in my own milk-soured vomit, but Steven is shaking me awake. He is worried. I hear repetitious beeping. I smell smoke. I smell everything. Has the oven timer always been this loud? No, that's the smoke detector. It is screaming into the thickening air in our house. Steven slaps me. He yells. Then again, harder this time. I taste blood in my mouth. Warm iron, but sweeter than I remember. My senses are screaming. The smoke. The alarm. The city lights throw pillars of illumination at one angle and noir at the other. Steven slaps me again. Softer this time. No, not slaps. Scratches? Yes. His fingernails dig into the flesh of my shoulder blades. It doesn't hurt. \ My hunger fades. I am fully satiated now. My lips and jaw and throat and chest are warm and wet. Steven moans weakly, lying limp in my arms. Blood pours steadily from two small holes in his neck. I remember now, it wasn't the vet, it was the woman from the bar. She was talking about me and my new feeding requirements. I don't even have a dog. "In that state," she said, "you will eat anything just to feel satisfied.