As a man with several alimentary addictions, removing toxins from my body should produce a good few positive effects. But with the growing number of detoxification methods out there in a day, along with my ignorance on the subject, as well as my unwillingness to listen to the crunching of people's voices telling me which lifestyle is superior to the others, I am a little unsure as to how to go about doing this without losing the rest of the life that I love. Hopefully, throughout my acquisition of knowledge and understanding regarding my cleanse attempts, I will refrain from any form of preaching or even of passing on my related learnings in any way. Between methods, I will incorporate a time of retoxification, wherein I do what you would assume by returning to my regular, much more enjoyable way of living. Mary Brown's overgravied taters, Freak Lunchbox's overpriced grab bags, and a third unhealthy grouping of foods, to round out the comedic or organizational effect, will all on be menu-ized during these hedonistic periods, which may last longer than one would think if I am honestly trying to remain health-conscious or even conscious.
My first stair on the case to health in perpetuity is the Wild Rose Herbal D-tox, created by "Dr." Terry Willard and containing rules that, although not always fully appreciated, must be adhered to. And anyway, it's only twelve days. That's probably less time than the record for standing on one's head, so it should be a cakewalk. Without the cake. Hahahahahaha. ha... So I can't eat eggs, except when they're anything other than deep-fried. I must also refrain from eating wheat, dairy, sugar, alcohol, and all other pieces of deliciousness. Processed food cannot be processed by me, and for some reason, I can't even drink Vienna sausage juice. Grains and vegetables, with a dispersed injection of fruits and meats and nuts, is essentially what I will ingest in my new life as a blankivore.
So it begins, this solidarity show, the actual precipitate for this plunge into a healthy style of life. The first couple of days are rather interesting, as I discover an alternative to the way of eating that I have grown accustomed to since my parents instilled in me the unreasonable value of white bread, leathery pork chops, and spiceless casseroles. My culinary range is improving rapidly, and it causes me to wonder how it has taken me so long to find oat pancakes, lentil dahls, toasted almonds, and various vegetable-dominant grub. However, it takes far too short before it becomes a constant chore to stave off starvation, as snacking has become quite limited and advanced meal preparation becomes more difficult for my laziness to deal with. Also, as I battle with these new restrictions, all around me the others flaunt their whiskey while flouting my sobriety, parading their breaded chicken wings while I listlessly ride my float made of tofu. As my emotions fall apart, my body joins in the sadness when the given supplements begin to take effect. My stomach refuses to settle, and the bathroom becomes my best friend, my first since Kristy, my imaginary friend whose birthday was celebrated daily. Nostagia. But I digest.
Managing my hunger levels is disproving to be easy, basically because the foods I'm supposed to eat prevent me from ever feeling sated or satiated, but I am told it can be done without shifting my paradigms. I try to replace wheat with the recommended replacement known as buckwheat, but after I tried to eat Whoopi Goldberg's son in The Little Rascals, I decided that wasn't really clever enough so I stuck to the secondary option in the bible of kosherity, known stupidly as millet. It's not too good like. I miss wheat. I'm not completely certain what wheat even is, and this is the first time I've admitted this. But I do know that since I'm pretty sure its existence is preventing me from eating bread, I hate it. God, I miss bread. I want all the yeast I can find. I don't know what that is either, but I love it. I might be in love with it. Yeast. The word alone infects me with an elation previously found only in halves of bottleless pills. And now I want sugar. Temptations continue, but I'm too proud to beg for cheese now, and only my imagination is preventing my insanity since I lost my Babybels. I am beginning to reget my temporary hiatus from constant indulging, but since I'm under the impression I could sample heroin without becoming an addict, I figure I can at least manage another week of this. It's for my health, I remind myself. Failing now would be relinquishing my stubbornness, I convince myself. So I goes.
Eventually, my body grows accustomed to its new lifestyle, I have increased energy and less need for sleep, and then I get tired of talking about this. Thanks for being here. If you see my mother, please tell her I'm not a failure. Goodbyes.
My next three D-talks will be a three-day apple-only binge that was prossibly idealized as a satirical commentary, another diet based solely around the partaker's blood type that appeared to make evolutionary sense to me in a cacophonous bar downtown, as well as that Atkins thing. Anyway, please enjoy them all with me, as readers, or in case nobody is reading this, as nobody.
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