After a trip to the grocery store (on two empty stomachs, no less!), then going back home to put away the frozen and frigidated food product, we headed over to Subway for Seraphim's usual footlong Sub Club, and I a footlong Roasted Chicken Breast. Okay, 1 and a half. I told you I was hungry. 18 points total.
Make that 20. The 12-pack of Fresca I bought (the only "diet" drink I like) wasn't going to be chilled enough by the time we got back home, and I wanted something more than water this time.
The carbonated fast ended just one hour past four days. 97 hours. I broke into the 12-pack of Squirt in the fridge (which I'd bought last week ... a monument to real defeat of temptation), but I drank just 2/3 of it.
I'm afraid it tasted a little different. I didn't feel like drinking all of that can. Imagine just a short month ago, when I could inhale a can in minutes, and reach for another.
Either this is a cusp of a seismic change in my drink tastes, or else I'm going to snap one of these fine days, my body drumming up a mean rebellion reminiscent of Poland's "Solidarity." We could call it Squirt-idarity.
Okay, 4 points left. Enough for an ice cream sandwich (3) and a stack of 15 Pringle's Light chips (1). They aren't too bad, I have to say. Not quite as good and flavorful as the Lay's Stax (which I was really into after they first came out, and soon burned out on 'em), but I can eat enough to satisfy before that funky Olestra taste starts rearing itself.
Yeah, 97 hours without any kind of soda. Not too shabby, eh?
Okay, back to getting the house ready for Tiger's arrival tomorrow.
Ciao for niao.
--Talmadge "Breakdown" Gleck
Chris Cornell, My mom, and Me
5 weeks ago