My mother goes away and leaves me in my godmother's capable hands. What my godmother doesn't know is that my world revolves around excess. Whenever it's time to wean me, I throw a tantrum. My mother had let her know that I love grapefruit. So she arrives with a whole case. At snack time, she brings me to the table and slices a nice, juicy, pink one. The aroma of paradise splashes my face and wakes up the monster in me. I begin to choke on my saliva. She brings the first piece to my mouth, and the momentum is unleashed. The pulp of this grapefruit is so perfectly and deliciously sweet that I need more, many more, so I can have this taste on my tongue forever. I eat a grapefruit, then, from somewhere deep and guttural inside me, demand another. More, I order her. My godmother cuts up another grapefruit and I immediately devour it. Grunting, I ask for more. I suck up the juice until the fruit is nothing more than an empty, dry piece of rind. After the sixth one, she calls my mother. "Your daughter's eaten a lot of grapefruit. She's already had six and she wants another one. Should I give it to her?" "No. She could go on forever." She's right. Whenever I'm told that something has to stop, a part of me breaks down a little more.