“Ethical gluttony is totally a thing, all over the socials, millions of views,” the producer says to the director as the video camera pushes closer. It’s the same thing she also said to me when I walked on set, as though I was in the know, ready to promote all those tech start-ups inventing designer imitation meat, about to hit it big as a mukbang star. What I wanted to tell her was that I took this job because I was starving, because not taking this job would mean I’d have to suck some guy’s dick for twenty dollars, maybe forty if I was lucky and he threw in a tip.

“Sit up straight and bring the fork into frame so Western audiences feel included.” The director says. I bring the fork to my mouth, leaving the chopsticks on the table as the stage lights blind me.

I begin my narration in English. I will later repeat the same phrases in Tagalog, Singlish, and Mandarin. “Welcome back. Today, I’m eating imitation meat. These delicious dishes resemble beef, pork and chicken but it’s made in the Future Foods lab. Eat less meat, save the planet.” I smile wide as the camera pushes closer. Later the editors will add a disclosure for misophonia, an extreme hatred of sounds like chewing and repetitive tongue smacking.

As I wait for the director’s cue to chew, the stage lights melt the foundation on my face. The director yells cut. The make-up artist’s eyelash curler and brushes poke and prod me as I look down at the imitation chicken nuggets, Bolognese sauce spooling over kilos of noodles, imitation beef stroganoff floating in brown gravy, dumplings and buns filled with imitation pork and beef, imitation beef steaks, and fake breaded chicken patties.

*

Years ago, I dreamed about being surrounded by this much food. Back then I was so hungry I couldn’t sleep, salivating over the thought of rice, a walking skeleton like the rest of my siblings. During the day I begged for food from the construction crews. They were there ripping up our rainforest for grazing cattle. Our fishing jobs had dried up from their construction waste, making these hard hat wearing crews our enemy; still, I salivated over their curries in sparkling silver tins and crispy chicken skins, lingering when they took their lunch break, hoping for scraps. When mirages of expansive buffets filled my sight, I’d hitch a ride on a motorbike and head into the city, standing across from the neon colored karaoke clubs where I made money doing the kind of things that would later make me want to throw up.

*

Now I blink into the stage lights, feeling the false eyelashes skim my cheeks. A variety of foods for breakfast, lunch, and dinner are spread out on a long table and as soon as the camera rolls I’ll enthusiastically eat all of it. That’s the number one rule of mukbang. I will eat loudly, indulgently, an abundance of oohhhs and ummms, smacking, swallowing, burping, licking my teeth, sucking on forks, chopsticks, spoons, biting, dipping, devouring, enthusiastically taking bite after bite for the camera.

*

I’d been standing by the food court’s trash can about to scrounge through it when a portly guy with a name badge interrupted me, “You can make lots of money. It’s like porn but you keep your clothes on.” He waved his clipboard. “Brands pay a lot for this. Especially the start-ups. You eat their food products while thousands of strangers watch online.” He paused, before continuing. “They’ll remember these brands when they’re grocery shopping. People love it. It makes them feel less lonely.”

*

The boom operator lowers the mic to capture every slurping, swallowing, gulping, lapping, masticating, gnawing sound as I chew into all this fake meat. The director says, “Ravage those noodles. Lick that sauce. More tongue. Everyone loves a skinny girl eating kilos of food.”

“Eat Less Meat. Save the Planet. Buy Future Foods.” I smile as I say it, coyly sticking my tongue out so audiences get aroused by the slimy squishy food remnants coating my tongue and teeth. Better than real meat I think as I lick the sauce spilling down the side of my bowl.

Maybe if there’d been a Future Foods in my hometown the construction crews wouldn’t have destroyed the rainforest and I’d be home with my family instead of on this set. I chew with my mouth open, smacking, smiling, winking, the strands of my hot pink colored wig falling across my eyes. I swallow and pucker my lips as I spoon the noodles and then I open extra wide and shove it all into my mouth as the stage lights twinkle like all the dollar signs I’m sending home. My siblings’ stomachs satiated even as mine is about to burst. Now in my sleepless nights I dream of throwing it all up.

“Eat Less Meat. Save the Planet. Buy Future Foods,” I seductively suck up a noodle, looking out into the blankness of the set, far from my home, feeling the loneliness that the viewers watching this also feel, all of us looking for comfort in piles of food, the kind of comfort that will make us forget the other injustices in our lives. I smile and say how delicious it is. “Join me and say yes to Future Foods.” And I wink at the camera and lick the last plate clean.