I don't know why I do half the things I do. I like to think of myself as this spontaneous, carefree vagrant, but I fear the truth might be that I'm simply an impressionable ne'er-do-well who lacks self control. It's probably the latter. One look at my bank account and you'd think, "this dude clearly has no foresight. And did he really eat at Taco Bell four times this week?"
Case in point: last week I was talking to my friend Jeanie on the phone and she started telling me about this all-juice diet she was on. Jeanie is the kind of hippie dippy gal who makes her own clothes and can spend an entire afternoon dumpster diving. I usually don't put much stock in her whims, but perhaps since I had nothing of importance going on in my own life, I indulged her.
"That sounds like it would make you shit constantly," I said.
"Oh yeah," she replied. "I'm shitting right now."
She told me juicing would clear out all my toxins. It was clear neither of us actually knew what toxins are exactly, but nobody really knows anything about anything. We all just pretend. If asked, I'd probably describe toxins thusly:
The more I thought about it, however, the more appealing it sounded to drink nothing but fresh juice for a whole week. I had a big hulking juicer in the closet that I hadn't put to use yet, so I figured this might be an interesting little experiment. So the next morning I woke bright and early and hoofed it down to the farmers market in search of fresh fruit and vegetables.
It didn't take me long to locate and purchase the items on my list, but as I wandered around the vendors' tables, it dawned on me what odd places farmers markets are sometimes. Apparently anyone can rent table and sell whatever kind of weirdo shit they want.
Later, back at home, I unpacked my juicer, skimmed the directions half heartedly, then plugged it in and started feeding big chunks of apples into the spout. I was instantly alarmed at how loud this juicer was. It sounded like it was in excruciating pain, but I suppose that's what I get for purchasing the cheapest appliance I can find on Amazon.
Despite the juicer's robotic shrieks of death, it pulverized the apples efficiently enough. I added kale, then lemons, then ginger and celery, and after a few minutes I had a large cup of what easily could've passed as pond scum. And it tasted like pond scum, too. Pond scum with lemon and ginger, but pond scum all the same. Still, I was committed, so I slurped it down and made some more for later.
Truth be told, it made me feel pretty damn good. Despite the wretched taste of the juice sludge, I discovered it gave me more energy throughout the day, and I no longer saw flaming skulls when I closed my eyes at night. The first couple days were mildly euphoric for me.
The honeymoon phase didn't last long, though. By the third day of this misbegotten juice fiasco, I was craving meat. Juicy, unadulterated meat. In fact, that night I actually dreamed about cheeseburgers. Sweet, sexy cheeseburgers.
The cravings only got worse. In the days that followed I'd stumble around like some malnourished zombie, muttering about mozzarella sticks and Oreo milkshakes. I'd wander around the grocery store, stopping to stare longingly as the frozen pizzas, and that's when I knew it had to stop. Thankfully, like an angel sent from on high, one of the grocery ladies was serving samples in aisle eight. She was dishing out Bagel Bites.
Following The Great Bagel Bite Debacle of 1994 (which involved me spilling a plate of piping hot pizza bagels all over my bare chest and leaving me with second degree burns) I'd sworn them off for good. But standing in front of that tray of cheesy, freshly microwaved little morsels, I couldn't imagine a more divine treat. I plucked one off the table with my boney, corpse-like fingers, struggling to lift it in my weakened state, and raised it to my lips.
Something peculiar happens when you deprive your body of real food, I've found. I'm not saying Bagel Bites are "real food," but bear with me for the sake of argument. I don't know what it is exactly, but it's like your taste buds begin to hibernate after a few days of choking down repellent green slime, and then when you present them with something tasty and savory, they flip the hell out.
Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. I learned I shouldn't structure my diet around buzz words like "juice fast" and "toxin." I learned kale tastes like dirt. If anything good came out of it all, I suppose being reunited with Bagel Bites is a plus.
Or maybe that's a negative. Whatever.