Toxic

I’ve started The Diet. I mean, no one likes to talk about it, right? But we all do it. I’d like to pretend that it’s for health reasons, or it’s because I’m not worried about how I look, but that’s not entirely true. I mean, it’s partially true, but the bottom line is simply this: I want to fit into my old pants. Period. Not because I want to wear my old pants, because, let’s face it, some of them haven’t been whipped out since the low-rise revolution took shape, or worse, they were purchased at the peak of the low-rise revolution and as such, barely rise above the pubic hair line. And after I lost all of the thyroid weight, I got a little lazy, and found myself eating through large piles of cheeseburgers because suddenly? I COULD. I HAD A FULL FUNCTIONING THYROID, CALORIES, SO SUCK IT.

And then, the cheeseburgers caught up with me, chasing after me and leaping onto my ass like velcro. Plus, my thyroid broke again, which renders me in need of a needle aspiration biopsy kind of thing where they plan to stick a giant needle – like, a giant giant heeyooge needle the size of the Chrysler building – into my neck to pull out some fluid from the giant cysts sitting on my thyroid. I’m not that scared, since it’s so unlikely that it’s anything, but A GIANT NEEDLE? Right. That is scary.

But anyway, the diet really isn’t the point. The point is, since The Diet, not only have I been eating lots of soup, as Whinge promised I would, but I am dining each day at the local health food store that’s next to my office. And really? I’m uncomfortable in health food stores. I can’t handle the crunchiness, for I will never be as crunchy as they are. It doesn’t matter how much hemp I wear (none), or how much Grateful Dead or Jack Johnson I listen to (very little), I will never get excited about millet flour, nor will I ever say, “The TOXINS, man. It’s the TOXINS. Dude, you SO need a shot of wheatgrass. It’ll clean you RIGHT OUT.” I want to, but I can’t. It’s FLOUR. Or wheatgrass. Gross. And I don’t even know what millet is. And sunflower sprouts are lovely, but really? WHY? Alfalfa sprouts seem fine, thanks. Despite repeated visits, I’m irked every time I leave the store, wondering how I’ve been duped into spending $7 on a bag of organic sprouted wheat chips flavored with sea salt from a sacred sea in an exotic, blessed location.

But that doesn’t stop me from going there for lunch every day for a veggie melt and a side of veggie soup because secretly, I believe some of this shit. And what’s worse? As I’m munching down, I feel somehow superior because I ATE ORGANIC TODAY, and what did you eat, suckah? Subway? I LAUGH AT SUBWAY. I smile beatifically as I order my melt and soup with organic cheese please, oh, and can I please have extra sunflower sprouts? Because I am organic and healthy and shit. And sunflower sprouts CURE DISEASE.

And constipation, apparently, for if “cleansing toxins” means “living in the bathroom,” then I AM FREE OF ALL TOXINS. UNCLE.

*Britney.

11 comments April 13th, 2006