I LOVE dieting. Anything that involves me squandering the short time I have on this earth to look marginally better in a pair of ill-fitting khaki pants and I am IN! Blindly placing the intricate nuances of how my body functions in the hands of an oppressive rulebook created by a fucked out shape-shifting lizard is so me.  So when I heard about the Whole30 and its ability to beat me even further into seasonal depression, I used what little energy I had left to start boasting to everyone that I knew that I was officially #Whole30Approved.

The first 10 days were easy enough and I was already looking as translucent as a jar of warmed petroleum jelly and shitting out all of the ketones you could possibly imagine! The only problem was my inability to drink away my misery. Being #Whole30Approved means of course that you must abstain from alcohol; this is a problem when painstakingly cooking seven approved meals a day and watching friends and family thoroughly enjoy their lives.

But all of the sudden, it was almost like the omnipotent force running my life heard my begging and pleading! Just when I was going to give in to my inexcusable weakness, the website announced that huffing computer duster was officially #Whole30Approved. Blessed be! I immediately butt funneled another bag of cauliflower and huffed until my lips turned blue. I’m feeling better than ever, because I am #Whole30Approved and addicted to keyboard duster!