Day 81: Belly-Flopping Off the Wagon

Ugh. UGH. I am the guinea pig of a self-inflicted science experiment called Cooked Food Makes You Suck. For the past two days I have belly-flopped spectacularly off the raw food wagon. I'm not even sure I can write a coherent post because my brain feels like a drunk ham sloshing in my skull. That's what I said: a drunk ham.

I didn't even have a good reason for it. It was like one of those Wednesday afternoon runaways in first-year university when you find yourself playing cards in the pub between classes and then BOOM it's 5pm and you're hammered, hanging off the toilet. It's like that, only with BBQ chips.

Drea and I have agreed that chips are the exception. Which makes no health-sense whatsoever, but we have this mutual love for Miss Vickie's Lime & Black Pepper chips. Don't try them. You'll love them. We've agreed that if one of our jerkfaced partners is cruel enough to bring these things into our homes, we will punish them by eating the chips. I don't get the logic either.

And lately, I've been feeling so good. Like SO GOOD. Clear, energized, creative. My writing has kicked up to another level. I'm focused. No mood swings. No procrastination. Since going 100% raw two weeks ago, I am a better version of myself.

So I celebrated with half a Family Size bag of Old Dutch.

You know what a yard sale is? Not the 4 CDs for $1.00 kind of yard sale, the kind on the ski hill when some dude takes a wrong turn down a black diamond run and his skis, poles, gloves and body parts get splattered all over the hill. That's me.

I pressed snooze ten times this morning. TEN. I'm not sure it's safe for me to operate a motor vehicle. If how I feel is a metaphor for how my writing will be today, it's going to be stupid, dull and insipid. How did I live this way before? Not that I regularly had three-course Old Dutch dinner parties, but still. Pressing snooze used to be a significant part of my lifestyle.

It didn't start with the Family Size, you know. It started with an innocuous dinner of chicken and rice two nights ago. My standard pre-Raw dinner. No big deal, right? But that's like taking the first drink. One drink leads to two – because, hey, you can handle it – and suddenly you're in a Vegas hotel doing body shots from a stripper's cleavage before burying your face in a silver platter of cocaine. I know how this works.

Okay. Deep breath. This is the part where we forgive ourselves for relapsing. Where we get our asses to a 12-step meeting. And where we get back on the horse. Wagon. Salad. Whatever.