Wednesday, June 2

Cheesy choices...REALLY poor, REALLY cheesy choices

OK, remember that post about how much I poop? Yep, we’re revisiting that. Ever so sorry. Thankfully, it’s the opposite of the first post. Still about poop, but about the very real possibility of having much less of it really soon. That seems like it would be a good thing, but it’s not. Let me explain.

I have the self control of an un-spayed dog in heat (I realize the fact that she’s un-spayed is completely moot since spayed dogs can’t be in heat, but it’s necessary to get the point across of how very little self control I possess). Well, I thought about what to have for dinner and remembered Roommate saying that I should eat her tortillas so they don’t go bad. I have never heard of tortillas going bad, but at that point I had already made the mistake of letting a teeny thought like “you know what tortillas make? quesadillas” into my head and it buried in like a tick and by that time I had it like herpes and it would never go away and I would never be able to get rid of it until I satisfied it like the nasty little sex offender it was and that’s three mixed metaphors in one sentence and I don’t even care because you need to understand that this complete lack of willpower is a terrible thing keeping me from gaining any sort of self-improvement. Suddenly I had an overpowering NEED to make myself the cheesiest quesadilla ever. Like, there was no way I would be able to go another 2 minutes without gobs of cheese and tortilla in my mouth (not gobs of tortilla, actually; poor syntax which I am again not fixing in my urgency, merely commenting on which may be more time-consuming). OK, we’ll get to why this was a poor choice in the first place later. Really, I probably recognized it then, but I was like a serious meth addict experiencing the worst withdrawal of his life, so bad that he didn’t even remember how awesome meth was but he felt one of those phantom pains about it and there was a very real possibility that he could actually get that real feeling back and he would stab a human baby to remember for real how great meth was even though he knows he just went on a binge of crack and X, and then heroin and blow both on the next day and he really really doesn’t need that meth but he can’t think of ANYTHING ELSE BUT METH. So I went down to the kitchen and got out the “nearly-bad tortillas” (justification? check) and mozzarella AND colby jack cheeses and a pan and went to work on the mo-fo of all quesadillas…which wasn’t epic at all but when meth addicts are really jones-ing for some meth, ANY meth is the mo-fo of all meth. Really, just keep comparing me to a meth addict and this will make a LOT of sense. Even the burns. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m also watching “How I Met Your Mother” on my laptop while I’m doing this, which is great but means most of the counter space is taken up and when it comes time to take the 3-lb. quesadilla out and put it on a plate I grab a napkin because I still feel too intrusive in Roommate’s house to use her dishes with any frequency. And with all that cheese came massive amounts of drippy, boiling-hot grease, which I failed to remember until the napkin gave out and the pain sensors in my fingers reminded me and I dropped the quesadilla on my Enter key (ish) but mostly not on my computer (thank GOD!) and I’m trying to bite off some of the cheese oozing out of the side and MASSACRING my tongue because I took it out of the skillet .5 seconds ago. But in my snort-some-meth-powder-I-found-on-a-NY-sidewalk-next-to-a-pile-of-actual-excrement state (I don’t even know if you snort meth or if it ever comes in powder form, so excuse that part) I just didn’t care. And I burned my fingers in about 5 places and my tongue was destroyed. And it was way too much cheese. Like, I could feel my bowels shutting down and making picket signs and striking for 3 days AS I finished the last bite. So, maybe in some weird part of my brain that thinks it’s helping but really doesn’t remember ANYTHING about biology, I thought I was counteracting all the fast-food-induced toilet paper usage by making me crave (and unavoidably eat) something that would stop me up for a week. But now I’ll just want to real bad and be unable to and curse my lack of self-control until I decide ten minutes later that I must eat some Little Caesar’s Crazy Bread THAT INSTANT or I will die. OHHH…remembered something I wish I hadn’t: I had Arby’s mozzarella sticks with lunch. EFFFFFFFF. Really…REALLY?

OK, then I was all, “That was a poor choice; no more food tonight. Deal? Deal.” I talk to myself WAY too readily when no one is around. Anyway, about .7 seconds later Roommate comes in and says, “Did you eat?” And I COULD say, “Yes and it was a poor choice so hide all the food ESPECIALLY CHEESE for a week.” But I do not. I say, “Yes, and it was all cheese so I won’t poop for a week. You’re welcome for that. (We’ve know each other a WEEK, by the way) Why do you ask?” And I figure it probably has something to do with going over to her brother’s house because he and his wife are super welcoming and invite me ALL the time and I usually just decline because I’m a real adult now (supposedly) which makes me boring and exhausted and I go to bed at like 10:30. So, she goes, “Oh, well since I’m taking care of Reuben’s cats this weekend he’s treating for Chinese and says you’re welcome to join and use their Internet and he’ll treat you too.” And OF COURSE the response was NOT, “I’ll come for the Internet and because your brother and his wife are super awesome I love them, but I don’t need to eat anything for the rest of the week, let alone the poor choice of Chinese takeout.” No, dear reader, it couldn’t possibly be that. It was, “I’m not that hungry but I’ll totally come anyway if he’s treating!” because it doesn’t matter how full you are, if you are offered a free meal and it is something you love or even tried once and didn’t hate or heard about in a magazine and it sounded edible, and you are a Dutch person, YOU MUST EAT THAT FREE MEAL. This is a Dutch rule. No one even taught me; it is engrained in my being. So I ate 5 lbs. of cheese today and then a whole extra meal that wants so desperately to pass through me very quickly because it’s Chinese and it delivers fast, it gets eaten fast, it digests fast and it leaves fast; but the cheese Nazis and Border Patrol bowels (alliteration NOT intended) have set up a 4-day roadblock and are intent on making me suffer for thinking I can somehow beat the system of natural punishment I deserve when I eat fast food in a meth-addict-reminiscent way (points for spelling that right the first time). “In fact,” says my body, “that’ll be two for (flinching) thinking a wheel of cheese would be the right solution.”

Wow. This is really long but I think it’s a good one. Hopefully you stuck with me through that long post and you weren’t like, “Need picture! Too much letters!” Because apparently you all have terrible grammar too. Anyway, wacky things don’t really happen to me, so instead I guess I’ll have to create humor out of the really poor choices I make. Really, though, those write themselves.

OK, my work-mind says, “You shouldn’t fall back into your habit of going to bed at 4 am and getting up at noon just because it’s a holiday weekend. You’ll have to be an adult again next week.” But my normal, still-in-college-mode mind is going, “WOO HOO!!! Nothing to do until 1 tomorrow!!! Stay up and watch Glee and maybe a movie or six!!” But I’m going to listen (ish) to my (boring) responsible mind and go to bed after just one teeny little episode of something as of yet undecided.

UPDATE: the 10-lb. quesadilla had essentially NO effect on my digestive routines!! Yay! OK, I REALLY will stop talking about poop now. At least for a week.

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