…feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive…
I’m having withdrawals. I feel like crap with a low grade fever, upset stomach and headache. It’s been just over 72 hours since I’ve stopped doing the fine white crystals that are my drug of choice. I’m not talking about crank, snow, horse, scag, tina, junk or even china white; these are all child’s play when stacked up against the evil monkey that was riding my back. I’m talking about…sugar.
I began this year by taking stock not only of my diet but also of my big fat ass and coming to the conclusion that it was time for a change. While the plan my partner and I chose is doctor recommended and not all that restrictive, it (oddly enough) doesn’t allow anything glazed, frosted or otherwise delicious. Just a lot of lean meats, vegetables, whole grains and crap like that. Not that I didn’t look for the Powdered Donut Diet, but no luck. I harbor no illusions of being a gym god or having a movie star body; my goals run toward being able to tie my shoes without pulling a muscle or channel surf without getting winded.
Unlike my literary and musical heroes I have not been subject to convulsions, panic attacks or visitations from giant hallucinatory talking cockroaches, but gosh darn it I’m more than a little cranky. And while coming down off heroin is fodder for ground breaking novels and seminal rock albums, coming down off glazed donuts and “slice and bake” cookies ain’t gonna produce much in the way of artistic output, save a few lackluster odes to Krispy Kreme and one very whiney blog entry. Living in West Hollywood I’m sure that there’s a near by 12 step meeting for sugar addicts, but unlike N.A. and Al-a-non my guess is the snack table sucks. It’s just not fair that some junkie who’s been stealing his grandmother’s Social Security checks gets to have a cranberry-orange muffin and I don’t. Not to mention that they’re already thin. Where’s the justice?
Where?
Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles. He has no idea why.
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