Someone please explain how in the world I deemed introducing food, of any kind, to my stomach to be a brilliant idea! Honestly, what maggot infested my brain to make me think that it would be a good thing? I suppose there is a reason I've been on a liquid diet, but dude, I was hungry. I normally get anywhere from 1200 to 1500 calories a day; only imagine the deficit that a broth-only diet was creating. That's right. My little tummy was protesting something fierce. My fuzzy slippers didn't even work this time.
I made my way to my kitchen, sliced some carrots, grilled some chicken breast, shredded the chicken breast, sliced a wee bit of celery, adding corn and sweet peas to the mix. To that, I added a few herbs, some egg noodles and that's right-you guessed it!-broth and let it simmer in it's goodness. I added a bit of milk to make it a bit more creamy. It was ever so nice, but it pained my stomach to have food in it after several days of nothing but broth. I thought I was going to be sick several times over, but fortunately, my greedy tummy was able to keep it down.
If I could muster the energy to actually worry, I'd be mortified by my appearance. My nude body is stretched out on my bed, covered in this awful rash, its redness a vivid contrast to the creamy whiteness of my flesh. My hair is not-so-artfully tied back in a knot of messy curls. I just flat out look sick. My poor little eyeballs are flooding over, making me look like I'm weeping without ceasing. I sound awful. When I do manage to form a word, my voice is raspy and it sounds more like I'm croaking, as opposed to speaking. I sound as if I'm having an asthma attack after running all out for entirely too many miles.
I suppose it's a good thing I live alone. I just don't think I'd be able to work myself into a rage if someone came in and decided to stare, overlooking the scarlet fever and whatnot.
