For the first 50 years of your life the food industry is trying

Host: The neon glow of a late-night diner flickered like a tired heartbeat against the rain-streaked windows. The clock above the counter showed 2:17 a.m. The streets outside were silent, empty except for the occasional car that hissed by on wet asphalt. Inside, the air smelled of grease, coffee, and a faint nostalgia — the kind that lives in places that never close.

Jack sat in a corner booth, his plate empty but for the crumbs of a long-cold burger. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, slowly, as if time itself might dissolve with the sugar. A half-broken jukebox in the corner hummed a forgotten tune.

Jeeny: “Pierre Dukan once said, ‘For the first 50 years of your life the food industry is trying to make you fat. Then, the second 50 years, the pharmaceutical industry is treating you for everything.’”

Jack: “Sounds about right. The perfect loop — consume, suffer, treat, repeat. The machine runs on our appetites and our fear.”

Host: His voice carried the tone of someone who had long since stopped being surprised by the world’s games. The fluorescent lights above flickered briefly, like a pulse faltering.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like we’re victims.”

Jack: “Aren’t we? From the day we’re born, we’re marketed to. Colors, flavors, ads — all designed to keep us hungry. Not just for food, but for comfort, escape, pleasure. Then when it all catches up, they sell us hope in a pill bottle.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think we’re complicit? Nobody forces us to eat that way, or live that way. We have choices.”

Jack: “Choices? That’s the sweetest lie they ever sold us. You really think a kid raised on cartoon mascots and sugar cereals is choosing anything? The food industry doesn’t just feed the body, Jeeny — it programs the mind. By the time we’re old enough to know better, it’s already too late.”

Host: He leaned back in the booth, the leather creaking under his weight, his eyes catching the dull glow of the streetlights. A truck passed outside, its reflection sliding across the window like a moving scar.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But we can unlearn it, can’t we? People do change. They wake up, they eat differently, live differently. I’ve seen it.”

Jack: “Sure — a few. But most people don’t wake up, Jeeny. They just switch addictions. From sugar to supplements, from fast food to fad diets, from pleasure to guilt. The industries don’t lose us — they just trade custody.”

Host: Jeeny paused, her spoon tapping softly against the cup. The sound was gentle, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You’re angry.”

Jack: “I’m tired. There’s a difference.”

Host: His grey eyes flicked up toward her, calm but sharp, like steel reflecting a distant fire.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to cook everything from scratch. No labels, no brands, just food. She lived into her nineties. When she died, she didn’t take a single prescription. Sometimes I think she knew something we’ve all forgotten.”

Jack: “She lived before the war between profit and health began. Before marketing became medicine, and medicine became business.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s not too late, Jack. People are becoming more aware now — organic food, plant-based diets, natural healing. They’re trying.”

Jack: “Yeah, and paying triple for the privilege. The same corporations that made us sick are now selling us salvation in biodegradable packaging. They rebrand their poison and call it progress.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups without asking. The steam rose in soft curls, mixing with the murmur of the rain outside.

Jeeny: “You always look for the worst in things.”

Jack: “I look for the truth. And it’s rarely flattering. You think awareness means freedom? It just means the trap has better lighting.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s your answer? Just give up? Stop eating? Stop trusting?”

Jack: “No. But maybe stop believing that everything sold to us is care. Because it’s not. It’s commerce. We’ve confused health with management — the goal isn’t to make us well, it’s to keep us alive just long enough to stay profitable.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, thrumming against the glass like a thousand tiny fists. Jeeny’s brow furrowed, her eyes darkening with thought.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lost faith in people.”

Jack: “Not in people — in the systems that feed them. People are still good. They’re just… busy surviving.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to remind them what living means.”

Jack: “And who’s going to fund that reminder? The wellness industry? The same one that sells detox teas and mindfulness apps for $19.99 a month?”

Jeeny: “You’re mocking it, but maybe even those are steps — imperfect ones, but steps. People are trying to reclaim their bodies, their choices.”

Jack: “Trying to buy back what was stolen from them. That’s not freedom, Jeeny — that’s a subscription.”

Host: A small smile flickered across her face, weary but real.

Jeeny: “You know, cynicism suits you less than you think. Maybe instead of hating the machine, we could teach people to see it — and choose differently.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t teach clarity to someone who’s still hungry.”

Jeeny: “Then start with hunger. Hunger is honest. It’s the one thing they can’t brand away.”

Host: Her words lingered, quiet but powerful, like the slow glow of a cigarette in the dark. Jack looked down at his plate, then back at her. The rain outside softened, the world taking a deep, tired breath.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We spend the first half of life learning to want, and the second half learning to regret it.”

Jeeny: “And somewhere in between, we learn to forgive ourselves for both.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, steadied, and held. The waitress wiped down the counter in the distance. The clock ticked toward three.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Pierre Dukan meant, beneath the cynicism — that we spend our lives being managed, when what we really need is to wake up.”

Jack: “And what if waking up hurts too much?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll be alive enough to feel it.”

Host: A quiet laugh escaped him — low, rough, but almost hopeful. The kind of laugh that carries both defeat and defiance.

Jack: “You always manage to make despair sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Despair means you still care. The real tragedy is indifference.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting hers. In that moment, the noise of the world — the ads, the machines, the voices — all fell away, leaving just two souls, awake in a sleepless diner, facing the small truths that live between hunger and hope.

Outside, the rain stopped. The window fog cleared just enough to see the faint reflection of a city that never really sleeps, just changes its mask.

The camera pulled back — the diner, the lights, the two figures caught in quiet revolt — whispering to each other not just about food or drugs, but about the quiet price of being human in a world that never stops trying to sell you your own life back.