In the words of the great Christopher Walken:
I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!
In the past day or so, I’ve begun wondering the extent to which that sentiment is true. Maybe I do need more cowbell to cure this fever? Where do I find this cowbell?Does anyone know Chris Walken’s number? Maybe he has a spare on-hand.
Because regular meds aren’t really doing the job at the moment, and I’m a little tired of this whole being-trapped-inside-my-apartment-like-a-prisoner thing. It ain’t for sissies. That’s for sure.
I’ve alternated between shivering in spite of the 90 degree heat outside and sweating uncontrollably all over my bed and clothes during the coldest hours of the night. I’ve laughed to myself at the absurdity of the situation.
At one point during my feverish sweats, I reverted to wearing a wicking shirt. Yes, that was the solution to all my problems. My beautiful running, wicking shirt. It represented the cure-all to my aversion to wearing sweat-soaked clothes throughout the night. I was now able to sweat to my heart’s content, and the amazing wicking shirt would just soak it right up as though no sweat had ever been there in the first place. Putting on that wicking shirt was my Touched By An Angel moment last night. Hallelujah, I see the light!
Alright. Enough with the hyperbole.
I’m not particularly inclined to show you my unexciting eats. They are just that. Wholly and unequivocally unexciting. But this is a food blog, so the show must go on!
I’ll keep it brief to minimize the boredom.
B-fast was some cereal with nanner. No coffee (gasp!) again.
Then came lunch, which arrived in the form of a green monster. Magically. I’m telling you, it’s like Touched By An Angel around here!
I don’t really remember what went into this, but I think it was some sort of chocolate-y banana peanut butter concoction with a boatload of spinach. I’m almost at the end of my peanut butter jar, which is usually a time to rejoice since this makes Oats in a Jar consumption possible. In this case though, I have no other nut butter backups in my life once the PB is gone. My PB is the last of the Mohicans! And since I don’t yet feel good enough to venture out into the big, bad world to buy myself some more nut butter, its disappearance would represent a true calamity in my life.
For a few days anyway. Pray for me, kids. It takes true strength and courage to survive nut butter shortages.
Dinner was carbtastical.
Some more curry coconut brown rice and a black bean + provolone quesadilla on a flat out wrap.
No veggies, which is very strange for me. I’m normally that girl who buys out the produce section at Whole Foods, but I just haven’t been craving them like I normally do. I miss my veggie cravings, but I know they’ll come back soon enough.
This morning, my fever is still in existence, which annoys me to no end. I think I will continue basking in the delight that is the PBS National Parks documentary I found off of Netflix instant streaming. It’s twelve glorious hours of the history of America’s National Park system, complete with abundant images of mountain porn (as my college friends like to call the mountain images I gazed at lovingly while slaving away on essays at the library).
An example of mountain porn, just in case you think I some kind of sick, perverted weirdo. I swear I’m not! I just like my mountains.
Once again, it’s like God put that National Parks documentary on Netflix just for me.
Hopefully, by the next time I write, Roma Downey Jr. will have just bestowed me with a new nut butter jar under glowing “angel” lights, of course. I can dream, can’t I?