Wherein I tell you exactly how glutinous I am

Yesterday was not a proud day for me.

It started with a spew in a bucket, because the night before I had completely forgotten that I’m 28, which is too old to drink one’s liver irresponsibly (and somewhat accidentally) into oblivion.

I also woke up with a head full of hazy memories of wildly gesticulated dance moves and terror on the faces of people who were unfortunate enough to watch me eat Burger King after. Although, to be fair, at least they (unlike Mark) didn’t have to watch it come back out again. Which was worse from certain angles.

So I spent Sunday as a jittery mess of hair, makeup and headaches and wore the expression of someone who had been severely done wrong by. A victim. A helpless, wounded junkie. And I made all of the appropriate noises.

Suddenly – shortly after my body’s rapid rejection of chamomile tea – WHOOOP! A different instinct overtook my withered, sweaty and unshowered body. Hunger. Nay, STARVATION!

It was the closest I’ve come to actually eating Mark.

To appease my sudden turnaround in disposition (and maybe as a basic self preservation instinct) he offered to go to KFC and get me whatever I wanted. WHATEVER I WANTED!

Drool slid greedily down the sides of my mouth as I tried to decide between the various meals. But you know. You KNOW what I had to have.

So yeah, Mark went to KFC and came back a little shell-shocked. Seconds later I sat in bed, looking like a lost lamb of god while feasting on two buckets of KFC chicken.

This translates to 21 pieces of chicken.

Except I stopped at five because it turns out that 21 pieces of chicken is A LOT of chicken. According to our calculations I might be responsible for the deaths of a whole chicken family. And the five pieces I ate – oh yeah at least one chicken died for that.

Anyway, I’d love to tell you more about it, but I have 16 pieces of chicken to eat...and that’s going to take an afternoon...