You know how it feels when you’re sick to the point where you cannot/will not eat anything? Because the consequences are, let’s say, less than pleasant? But eventually you start to feel what you assume has to be hunger, because you haven’t eaten in what seems like fourteen days, so you decide to “test it out” by sort of half-licking, half-chipmunk-gnawing at a pretzel with the salt chipped off? And for the first couple lick-gnaws, it’s okay, you’re feelin’ pretty good about this. So you graduate to taking a bite, like a real-person-sized bite, and then suddenly BAM. No. Not working. It’s like you imagine your stomach or intestines or whatever suddenly seizing up into a giant spazzy knot while the voice of King Triton is roaring Noooooooooooooooooooooo!
Why King Triton?
So, accepting the fact that you’ll probably just starve to death (even though it’s probably only been, like, five hours since you last ate), you just decide to go to bed.
And then you wake up in the morning and it’s like – whoa. Birds are singing. The sun is shining. You feel completely and totally fine. Like, you can’t remember what it feels like to be sick. At all. So after you finish praising Jesus and calling your Mommy to tell her you feel all better, you sit down to a bowl of Raisin Bran.
And it is the best, most delicious, meal you’ve had in your entire life.