It has been 24 hours since I have ingested any type of solid food for I have begun the Lemonade diet. Lemons, B-grade maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and distilled water is the only form of nourishment I plan on having for the next 10 days. I have fasted many times before. By many I mean four or five, each fast lasting no shorter than three days and no longer than five. This time around, however, is different. It’s scary. I don’t mean, to go so long without eating (some people do it for 40 days). I mean the power that comes with knowing you are not eating. The power on the subway when I look at all my New York friends at 7AM wiping sleep from their eyes, stretching arms to the side with yawns, gazing out with an abandoned stare. “Hey, guys. I haven’t eaten in two days. I will fuckin swallow your briefcase.” One side effect. One side effect I always get on my fasts. It doesn’t mention this in the brochure does it Mr. Boroughs, inventor of the Lemonade diet. I don’t feel hunger pains, I just feel hunger thoughts and I wind up wanting to fuck food. Don’t want to eat it. The lemonade drink gives me all the nutrients I need. So I’m not hungry but I just like being around food. You can’t go anywhere without seeing food. You can’t go inside anywhere without someone mentioning food, or having a drink, or someone’s got a little Polaroid of a cake their grandma made. Right now, I will stick my dick in a little plate of hummus. I’ll cut a cucumber in half put one nub in each hand and roll that wet sticky coolness all over my face and lips. Not sexy. Not in a sexy way. In a loving way. In a way that says, “I respect you.” “You are my equal.” “I don’t look down on you.” “If we have a fight and I’m in the wrong I will give you a bona fide apology.” “I will call in the morning.” “What? The condom broke? It’s ok, It’s OK. We’re gonna deal with this together.