Hangry: A Tragedy in Clear Liquids

You know those commercials where some poor bastard is losing his mind because he’s “hangry” and all he needs is a Snickers? Well, I’ve surpassed that. I am no longer hangry—I am spiritually hollow, morally compromised, and one grapefruit juice away from committing mild crimes.

Most days, I forget to eat until after dark anyway, which is its own lifestyle choice, but today? Today the medical-industrial complex has forbidden me from consuming anything that could be described as “food-like.” No solids. No substance. Only “clear liquids,” which apparently includes broth but only if it’s as empty and meaningless as my will to live. Nothing floating in it. Nothing interesting. Nothing that would make you think, “Ah yes, nourishment.”

By 9 a.m., the fridge had become a shrine to everything I’m not allowed to have. The cookies in the jar whispered to me like seductive carb sirens. From the freezer, the frozen burritos call out like long-lost lovers. And the pecan pie—oh God, the pecan pie—basically tried to throw itself into my arms.

Instead, I’ve had two cups of beef broth and three coffees, which means I now resemble a malnourished Victorian chimney sweep with anxiety. I broke down and made Jell-O, that wiggly symbol of defeat, but it hasn’t set yet. So I made more, in another flavor, because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who stress-manufactures gelatin desserts. Remember when I used to want a big, juicy ribeye? Yeah. Not anymore. All I want is Jell-O. Jell-O. How far the mighty have fallen.

And I have to do this until after the eye-stabbing on Monday.

But after Monday? Oh, we’re stopping somewhere—anywhere—that sells edible matter. Burger King, Wendy’s, a gas station with questionable egg salad. Hell, I’ll eat a hot dog spinning under a heat lamp since 2014. We might even need emergency donuts just to keep me alive long enough to locate a drive-thru. Sure, there’s a great little Mexican place in Temple, but that’s an hour from the hospital, and frankly, I do not expect to survive the journey.

Right now, I’m twelve hours into a thirty-hour fast. Time has slowed to the pace of a dying sloth. Every minute stretches out like an eternity of culinary suffering.

Lucky for me, vodka is clear.

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