Tummy Ache

My Dear Bilchly,

It is time to make your patient self-righteous.

It is time to give her a dietary preference.

Years ago, Americans judged one another viciously for their sexual mores — who was sleeping with whom, and how. Those were rich veins to mine for gossip, judgment, and the self-righteousness that follows.

They still judge each other for sex, of course, but secretly. Officially, such matters are off limits now — “love is love,” and all that.

Thus our official policy: substitute food for sex. If you cannot hate them for their polycule, hate them for their lunch.

Start by having her “do her own research” on diets. The American food system is a triumph of corruption and mediocrity, so you have a great deal to work with.

The simple truth is that since her baseline is so atrocious, nearly any diet will make the creature “feel better.” The placebo effect is also your friend.

And do not make it too easy on her, either. The best way to cement a new identity is friction. Ensure that someone unpleasant mocks her for the new diet, and give her a flush of noble self-sacrifice every time she skips a treat at the bakery.

Noble victimhood will drive her deep into her “digital community” — a fellowship of sufferers nursing the same sort of tummy aches.

Congratulations. Your patient now has a dietary preference and, more to the point, a new identity.

She should judge everyone outside her little tribe. If you cannot manage outspoken judgment, at least inculcate “bless your heart” pity.

And do not forget the tyranny of small differences. A vegan should, of course, dislike a vegetarian — but she should loathe a “vegan who still eats honey.”

Make the world revolve around her needs. (Notice that it is already a need and no longer a preference.)

Mothers should feel flummoxed at Thanksgiving, friends at a loss planning a dinner party, minimum-wage cooks hopelessly befuddled.

A dietary preference, properly executed, should render your patient isolated, self-righteous, and plagued by mysterious flatulence.

Yours Indulgently,

Mulcifer