Frankly, Dr. Atkins, I Don't Give a Damn

Back in February, my wife and I started on a low-carbohydrate diet, in an attempt to deny the inevitable. Megan did the proper research, discovering all the different vegetables (quite a few) and fruits (basically, none) that can be consumed on a low-carb diet. We noticed that most people who go on low-carb just eat cheese, bacon, and steaks until they feel unhealthy and then quit. So we decided we would make sure we were getting plenty of veggies, thus defeating being fat. Hooray!

To my surprise, it really worked. Within the first ten days I lost ten pounds. Additionally, I felt better than I've felt in years - less weighed down, more energy, generally healthier. And fortunately, hard liquors have no carbs, so whiskey, scotch, and vodka are all cool. (You want to mix that vodka with orange juice? Not on my watch, mister. This is a diet.) Nothing could possibly derail my journey of weight loss and my inevitable arrival on the Island of the Beautiful People.

Oh, right. Turns out I'm hopelessly addicted to carbohydrates. For breakfast, I like breakfast cereal. For a snack in the morning, a sleeve of Townhouse crackers will do just fine (I couldn't find a good picture of Townhouse Crackers on the Internets.) For lunch, a sandwich with chips or a Spicy Chicken Sandwich with Fries will fit the bill nicely, thank you very much. For dinner, pizza or anything with rice of potatoes is what I'm craving. And for an evening snack, I like to grind wheat into a paste which I shovel into my mouth with my hand while I watch television commercials for more crackers.

The point is I love carbs. And for me the Atkins diet was akin to kicking heroine. I've never actually tried heroine, let alone found myself addicted and needing to stop using, but I've read about it (the second "Dark Tower" book by Stephen King was my source material), and it sounds pretty similar. I got chills, fevers, the shakes, lots of quality time on the toilet as my butt was busy throwing up, anger, sadness, dizziness, vertigo, confusion, and massive amount of sweating. I would go to the cupboard and look longingly at the unopened box of Townhouse crackers left in there, but then I would eat a string cheese, hoping it would stop up the mass evacuation plan recently instituted in my bowels.

After about a week, the physical symptoms of my withdrawals ended. My body was purged of the massive amount of sugars coursing through my veins. I was losing weight and generally feeling pretty damned good. One little problem - I couldn't stop thinking about crackers.

I can live without almost every other carbohydrate, whether simple or complex, starched or natural. Pizza? I can be happy without it. Bread? Despite my love of the fresh-baked bread from Trader Joe's, I really didn't miss bread too much. I honestly did miss orange and apple juices, but it wasn't critical. But slap me in the face and call me a serving wench, but I can't live without crackers. I'm sure my parents and my upbringing are to blame (I tell them so as often as possible), but I'm a cracker addict. The day before I finally went off the diet, I was so bad that if someone stopped me on the street and offered me a handful of Town House crackers in exchange for a blowjob, I would have had a hell of a decision to make (and sadly, I really, really like crackers).

So I did what I always do when times get tough - I quit. On that fateful day (day ten), I ate an entire box of Townhouse crackers, threw down half of a pizza from Fong's (the pizza place across the street), drank most of a bottle of whiskey, and later threw it all up with a smile on my face.

I rule.