So after spending a solid portion of last week peeing out of my ass, I decided to go to the doctor to see what the fuck was wrong with me. Much to my dismay, I was given the news that I have a gluten allergy, and I would have rather heard Zika than that. So now I’m one of those people. I’m the guy who has to ask every waiter, party host, or hungover friend ordering a pizza on a Saturday whether or not there is a gluten free option available. The one who can’t drink beer at the barbecue. The one who can’t eat from that shady pizza place at 3 a.m. I’m so fucked.
You know how much this will fuck up my life? I live for gluten; it’s the best. My body was made on gluten. Everything with gluten in it tastes amazing. You know what doesn’t taste amazing? Kale, grilled chicken, and mother fucking quinoa. As a fat guy there is no worse fate than being sentenced to a life of gluten intolerance. I’ve built my life on a love for junk food; cheez-its, late-night chinese food, and buffalo wings (with ranch) have been staples of my life from the jump, and now it’s all gone. From here on out I will be subjected to a life of repression and misery. A life of hipster restaurants, Whole Foods, and hard cider. Has anyone ever spent a night drinking Angry Orchard? The diabetic shock is worse than the actual hangover. The only plus side is that I’ll have a built-in excuse to drink whiskey exclusively with little-to-no judgement, hopefully.
So what do I do? Say fuck it and just live a life of liquid shits? Not eat? Fuck myself? I’m a lost soul who is about to enter this scary new world. I have a wedding in 2 weeks and now have to wonder whether or not I can even eat. I’m from Chicago, and they don’t account for that shit in the midwest. It’s considered a hippy myth along with diabetes. It’s also the peak of summer baseball, and there is no way I can make it through a Cubs game without a hot dog and a few Budweisers. It just wouldn’t feel right. What will my dad say? Can I still come to Christmas? Do I have to change my last name? The questions are endless.
The only promise I will make is that I will not talk about my new ailment (aside from this column). I cannot and will not become that guy; another statistic as a gluten free fuckboy who won’t shut his damn mouth up about his new “lifestyle.” It’s the express train to becoming an L-7 weenie with no friends, not that I like I like my friends that much anyway but they’re all I’ve got. And I sure as shit won’t roll with a gluten free crowd. I’d rather move to Cleveland. If anyone has any advice for your boy, please let me know. I’d also gladly except gifts in the form of probiotics and Imodium, dealers choice..
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