Carbocide king

I've been juggling a couple of paranoid theories. Pakistani Al Qaeda spies are hunting me for war crimes, the FDA is secretly poisoning me with soy products, and I'm the unknowing host of an alien super-virus. Also, I may be allergic to gluten.

Personal reform is a painful and arduous process. Dieting is a cruel bitch. This month, I've axed wheat products from the menu. This decision doesn't translate easily to my grocery list. Shopping in the "Gluten Free" section at Tops Friendly Markets is a depressing task. The labels seem to read: "Gluten free, fat free, sugar free, hormone free". What the labels fail to mention is that most of these goods are also taste free. I tried some gluten free crackers that tasted like crispy, burnt circles of wax paper, covered in tiny, granular pieces of asphalt.

Not eating wheat is pretty easy. I steer clear of bread, crackers, pasta and baked goods. I went all last week without eating a single carb. But I committed carbocide this afternoon, with a twelve ounce box of rice pasta. My poor stomach ached and swelled like the dark and unruly currents of the Bering Sea. I'm still digesting now, almost seven hours later. As with any self-inflicted injury (like when I punched the door-frame and sprained my middle knuckle), I've been silently cursing myself all evening.

Exactly what pathetic circumstance forces me into excess? Out of boredom people often do silly, ridiculous things. Or they do something that is just batsh*t crazy. I suppose carbocide is less dangerous than any of those. Next time I really want to threaten my life, I'll eat a pound of pasta while wingsuit base jumping.