I started a diet. I gained 40 lbs during chemotherapy, and although people keep telling me I look good, I believe that what they mean by “good” is “alive,” and “alive” would look “good” in any shape. Even fat-shaped.
I bought a Men’s Health magazine at the train station the other day and tore out the pages that had “healthy” recipes, or any recipes, and I drove to the store. It was midnight, the time of night when lonely people come 24-hour supermarkets. When I had parked and was about to go in, I realized that I had forgotten my wallet at home. So I drove home from the store at midnight-plus-five-minutes and decided never to go on a diet again.
Until today. I went to the store again today, with my wallet, but forgetting the torn out page of the stupid Men’s Health magazine that I bought at the stupid train station on my stupid way home. Stupid chemo brain. I remembered something about whole wheat and fiber, so I bought a wide variety of things I don’t believe raccoons would even eat and brought them home.
I thought I’d try out this “soy milk,” since the world seems to be so excited about soy these days. I couldn’t bring myself to try the regular soy milk, though, because it looks like that which comes from a lactating bovine, but is not, and for some backwards reason that disgusts me. So, instead, I bought the chocolate soy milk, which, although looking much more attractive than the regular, probably has no place in anything called a “diet.” When I came home my mother told me that recent studies have shown that soy milk isn’t all that great, and the world isn’t that excited about it anymore.
I really gotta move out.
But I digress. When I got home I found that the Men’s Health called for cream cheese on its “Whole Wheat Turkey Wrap.” And salsa. And green onions. Of which I had none. So I put on Miracle Whip instead, and chopped up cucumbers, and this slimy turkey that was on sale at the store. It looked nothing like the turkey, salsa, cream cheese wrap on the torn out page. And I don’t think the Miracle Whip plays any role in my “diet,” either.
I also added dill weed, because my mother told me that “dill weed” wasn’t just a nickname for some unfortunate playground kid, that it was actually a spice used in cooking.
Did I mention I’m 25? Pathetic.
But by then I had already offered to make dinner this evening, so it was too late to back out of this “diet” idea. I planned on making the recipe from the torn out page that was directly below the now-annoying picture of the fancy Turkey Salsa Cream Cheese You-Can’t-Even-Make-a-Friggin’ Wrap (or whatever it was called), which was a Broccoli and Rice Casserole.
Which reminds me. We need to find a better word for “Casserole.” Making a “Casserole” for dinner is lame and makes me feel old. Say it: “Casserole.” If you stare at it long enough it even starts to look weird: “Casserole.”
I’ll spare you the dreary details of the Broccoli and Rice Casserole. In the end, it was good, but could’ve used a thick layer of melted cheese all over the top of it.
Somewhere between the slimy, no-salsa, Salsa Turkey Whole Wheat Wrap and the “Casserole,” I found the granola bars. Not the ones that taste like dirt and are good for you, but the ones with chocolate and sugar and peanut butter. I figured I shouldn’t eat them while on my “diet”…but, I mean…there were, like, four boxes of these things, and I figured that I should probably try to get rid of them as quick as I can, so as not to ruin the “diet.”
So, like I said, I started a diet. It’s going about as well as expected.
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