Death by oatmeal

Greg holds a firm belief that he will die around the age of 40. This terrifies me. I don’t want to be a widow, especially at a young age. Plus, I plan on living to 100, so I will be alone for a very long time.
Greg doesn’t like to eat healthy. I try to keep the fridge stocked with fruits and vegetables, but I have never seen him voluntarily pick up a piece of fruit and eat it. I have to wash it and push it into his hand, and then he might eat it. But he will probably search the kitchen for carbs first. Why eat fruit when you can eat banana bread or cookies?
My parents brought home some oatmeal cookies from the grocery store yesterday, and in the past 24 hours Greg has eaten, oh, about 13 cookies. It is as though our entire kitchen is empty of food, save for that one container of cookies. Greg is a dog snarfing down a big piece of raw steak. This morning, Greg ate two cookies for breakfast.

“You know why you’re only going to live to 40?” I asked. “Because you’re eating two cookies for breakfast.”

Greg gave a look that suggested he would be happy to fall over dead, his arteries clogged with butter, sugar, oatmeal, and raisins. At least in Heaven he can eat all the cookies he wants without me pestering him.

“And don’t think I’m going to look after that silly dog of yours after you’re gone!” I said.

Greg handed Abe a piece of the cookie.

“That’s why I’m feeding him cookies too,” Greg said.