Life moves pretty fast…

I just rounded off my first twenty four hour fast by eating three meals all in one go. In keeping with the spirit of health and personal improvement I made sure they were the cornerstones of balanced nutrition. Three hoisin chicken breasts, and entire tub of double cream yoghurt and a bag of microwave popcorn.

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As someone who believes that life is mostly pointless it is (apparently) important to create your own meaning, lest you tumble down one of the myriad rabbit holes that beset you on a daily basis. (Where, as I understand it, you are likely to engage in a meaning of life discussion with a hookah smoking caterpillar and various other characters you might (depending on your proclivities) find either more or less hallucinogenic)

As a rule I like to avoid rabbit holes and so I have to occupy myself with other things, a chore I mostly achieve through forcing food through my digestive system. Up until recently this near constant grazing (and pooping) has worked out pretty well for me.

Of course nobody told me* that when you breach the thirty five mark your almost X-men like metabolism starts to slow and when you wake up on your fortieth birthday its has inexplicably disappeared (without even the common decency to text you something along the lines of ‘Its not me, its you’). You spend the first few weeks sending out search parties and exercising your right to denial… but eventually you have to come to terms with the fact that you’ve been ghosted by your own biology. Which makes you sad. And so you eat pancakes.

*seriously someone should add this to the Life FAQ. (Along with breeding is hard work)

As a spoiled (and entitled) dilettante I always imagined that not eating for twenty four hours was somewhat akin to abuse or self harm. Or maybe a lack of means (I have to add that so as to sound particularly odious) Actually… that view hasn’t really changed. But it’s also harder than I imagined. Seriously, what do people do with all this free time? I found myself wandering around aimlessly through my warehouse and engaging my staff in deep and meaningful conversation about their hopes and dreams. Okay… I made that last part up. (its harder to fire people when you humanize them)

Apparently you will not die if you don’t eat for a day. Although I thought maybe I would feel like I was dying. As it turns out the only real discomfort I felt was on about hour twenty… two or twenty one. When I had a serious dizzy spell. I actually walked from my office into the open-plan sales office because if I was going to pass out… better to pass out there I thought. But it only lasted about a minute or so and then the internal combustion engine (or whatever fuels us) kicked back into the green. I know, not only is this paragraph quite dramatic… it is also super technical.

I should probably also come clean (right near the end) that I didn’t… eh… do a… whats the right terminology, an orthodox fast? You know, where you just drink water, sleep on the floor and flagellate yourself. I did the ‘lite’ version which was a bone-broth fast. I drank about one and a half quarts of bone broth during my “fast”. I feel the need to put it in inverted commas now. Which… to the purist…. is like claiming to be paelo, but shoveling in a baguette on the side. With cheese. Which I also sometimes do.

What is life without a little hypocrisy?

11 thoughts on “Life moves pretty fast…

    1. We NEED to develop a secret handshake… so as to easily identify ourselves to one another. Like the illuminati. (I’m not entirely sure if the illuminati even shake hands/tentacles/alternative appendages, I’m pretty sure they do). Lets put our heads together Jim, I’m sure between us… (ok this is most likely on you) we can come up with something.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. We’re not gangsters Jim. We’re men of science. And reason. We need something more profound.

        As an interesting aside do you know how that gesture came into being?

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      2. Apparently, during the 100 years war, the French used to cut off the middle finger of the English longbowmen they captured so that they could no longer draw back a bow. When the armies used to face off across the field of battle the bowmen would raise their middle finger at the French knights as an insult and shout ‘pluck yew’, their bows being made from Yew. Over the years, pluck yew became fuck you.

        I read this in a book about the English language once. I’m not sure if its true or not. But its an interesting story

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      3. Always wondered where it originated. The word “fuck” is supposedly an acronym for Fornication Under the Consent of the King. At least, that’s what my British mom claimed… since she used it so much

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      4. Ha ha. That is quite clever. And somehow quite British. Would we all be swearing differently if it had been a Queen in charge at the time? Fucq. Although grammatically I suppose it would have to be fucqu. Which is now starting to read like the bad guy from an HP Lovecraft novel.

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