Brain Dead

I have such a hard time naming my posts.  I'm not witty enough for titles.  My nickname in high school was Witty, but not so much for my wit, but for my last name.  It may have started with a science teacher who was always perplexed about how to pronounce my last name.  "Is is Wit or Whit" he would say while over enunciating.  He finally just started calling me witty whit.  Ok, that was completely unnecessary.   

So, day 2 of the detoxification of my horribly horrible innards. 

What I have discovered is that I haven't been saying in jest all these years that I'm a carb addict.  Apparently my body has been in agreement.  What happens when my brain is starved of carbs?  It goes dead.  

I put this shirt on this morning.  It wasn't dark, it was perfectly light.  There is even a mirror in my closet which I'm sure I glanced in before exiting.  

I went on a walk.  I went to the bus stop.  I went to my pt appt.  The very last thing I do is in front of mirror.  I looked in the mirror.  Then I looked again.  Yep, my shirt was inside out.  It's not like I hadn't had some strange feelings about my shirt.  It was looking weird and seemed off somehow, but I didn't have the brain capacity to investigate further.  I comforted myself by convincing myself that others who had seen me thought it was a new trend.  You know, like when they make clothes purposely to look inside out.  Yes, that's it, that's exactly what they thought!

I'm loosing my mind.  I'm loosing the ability to think.  I'm loosing my will to live!  I came home and had to make myself some "soup" for lunch.  This was not soup.  Soup is supposed to be hot.  It should have stuff to chew in it.  This was neither.  It took like 3 bags of carrots to make.  It's just carrot, avocado and some ginger and cayenne pepper (you can see it on the counter).  It didn't taste bad, it was just depressing and I couldn't eat it.  I had already had to choke down a celery, cucumber, kale and pear juice this morning which had me gagging by the end. 

I realized that I needed to be kinder to "juicers." It's not their fault that we don't see eye to eye on many of life's great decisions.  They just need a sandwich.  A good ole hunk of bread with some highly processed meat and a slab of partially real cheese and then when they've digested it, we can have a conversation.    At this rate, I may not even know my own name by tomorrow!

If you see me in the fetal position in some dark corner somewhere mumbling nonsense with my clothes on inside out, please take pity on me and shove a piece of bread in my mouth.  Much obliged.