I need to detox.  I need for someone to chain me down and force clear liquids into my mouth for approximately 3 days.  I need chicken broth and water.  I need an all liquid diet.  I need to flush out my system and start all over.  I need to go to the gym and take that hellish cycling class I hear everyone groaning about.  The one where at the end of the class the riders peel themselves off their sweaty seats and walk their jelly bow-legged selves to the showers – immediately.  I need to sweat the weekend out of my pores.  I need to eat only natural, organic fruits and vegetables and nuts for the rest of the week.  I need a mud bath.  I need a stomach virus.  I am almost prepared to say that I need to do a colon-cleanse, which, reminds me of a classic dinner scene in the Nutty Professor.  His mother mentions getting her colon cleansed and the table shakes as the Professor’s father and brothers release their gases in response.  Oh, Eddie Murphy, you’re a gem.

I need all of this because I made and ate The Hubbs’ birthday cake.  I should say that I made him a brick of sugar for his birthday and then I set it on fire and then we attacked it with ferocity.  As I ate said cake, I could feel my teeth dying.  I could feel the plaque in my arteries strangling my blood flow.  If I am not now suffering from diabetes, it will be a God send.  My body is screaming at me.  It’s pissed.  So much for those 4 miles I ran on Thursday.  I am back at square one staring at my fingers and wondering how they move.  Tomorrow, I will figure out how to walk again.