While I don't go so far as to cook myself up in an orange soup
and drink myself, I do engage in certain acts of self-mastication
from time to time.
It all started when I became displeased by a rather large callus in my left big toe. I picked at it a bit with my (rather long) fingernails, until a brilliant thought came to mind. My teeth are indeed quite strong and sharp; one would be surprised by how effective incisors can be on calluses.
I also took to removing calluses with a pair of toenail clippers, but it never had the quite magical feel. The control, the power, the... simplicity of biting cannot be equaled.
I soon moved on to the dead skin around the tips of the fingers. It provides a very small and quick chew, but this source of masticatable matter is soon exhausted.
I chew on my lower forearms, just above the wrist. But I can't bite too hard, or it hurts. I've never drawn blood. But sometimes I wish I could just CHOMP and take a huge gaping bite down... when you're limited to calluses, you can get hungry.
Self-cannibalism (or at least my very limited form thereof) is for me not an end in itself, but simply a way to chew. I chew on my pens and pencils, I chew on my friends' pens and pencils. I chew on my shirt-collar, but it gets soggy. After my shower, I will chew on my towel. Damn, do towels taste good. Try it.
But I don't like limiting myself to inanimate objects. I occasionally nibble on my girlfriend, but she doesn't appreciate it. Recently I bit a friend's large clump of hair tied back. I wonder if she noticed? I think she didn't want to. My (non-murderous) human mastication opportunities are quite limited. But right here, on the flesh about the bones I call my own, lies a willing and ever-present object of my... affections; my own, hairy, salty skin, which is no longer too tight and smells different after it's been out in the sun.