PALEO FROM THE TRENCHES / by Justin Warren

I enjoy kicking my own ass. It all started around ’93.

I grew up a lonely child, so I decided to do something about it. I broke new ground in the lost art of indoor self-entertainment, mainly due to my parent’s discouragement to venture outdoors “because Niggas be poppin’ glocks,” a phrase which I’m still hoping someone will kindly decipher.

After school, I’d book it upstairs, jam Mortal Combat in my Sega Genesis, fire up two-player mode and declare war on myself. I’d launch a flashy mêlée of brute-force attacks, pummeling my analog opponent within an inch of its life, pause it, scoop up the other controller and proceed to rip out the spinal cord of my previous fighter. The cycle would continue for longer than I’d care to admit on the internet.

Because I’d melt with embarrassment if my wife ever found me playing 8-bit Mortal Combat, video games aren’t an option these days. So I’m always scheming for ways to make life harder on myself. Because I love it when things are unbearable.

So I decided the best way to nearly sink my sanity was to go Paleo.

Cheatsheet: You eliminate all added sugar from your diet and HOLY F PROCESSED SUGAR is in everything. I’ve been told they’ve started adding it to breastmilk. The goal is to eat like a Caveperson. The trick is simply to brainwash yourself to feel satisfied only feasting on lean meats, vegetables, and fruit, all of which is drowned in coconut oil. You eat only what our prehistoric ancestors could find. But warning, this diet may cause unibrows and offers to star in Geico commercials.

If you’ve been around me longer than a meal period, you’d know this could possibly the be the greatest challenge of my life. I usually dine on a strict, diverse diet of breads, various cheeses, and cheeses melted on various breads. I’ve been told I eat like a trashcan.

So far, everything’s going great. It’s been two weeks and I’ve only cried out to the heavens in pain, like, nine or ten times. I’ve lost a little over eight pounds so far. Despite my taste buds threatening to vote Republican, I must say I’ve never felt better.

But the cravings. Oh sweet mother of Mary, the cravings. Although I was born sans-uterus and haven’t the slightest idea of what I’m talking about, I can only describe these bastard-like cravings as late-term, emergency pregnancy contractions. The other night I was doing the dishes like the good husband that I am, when OHMYHOLYFUCKWHATISHAPPENING. I clenched my stomach and dropped to the ground, writhing in torment.

My eyes rolled to the back of my head, as my neck twisted around backwards, voice dropping six octaves in an instant.

GIVE ME SUGAR. I NEED. I NEEEEEEEEEEEEEED

But no one else was there, so I can’t verify if that’s exactly what happened. But that’s what it felt like. And then a friend of mine, also in the paleo trenches, texted me a miracle: a recipe for paleo ice-cream.

That’s right y’all. Fake ice cream. That’s how desperate I was. I ripped the blender from the way way back of the cabinet, and proceeded to throw copious amounts of cocoa powder at it. I drizzled a full bottle of honey with gobs and gobs of chunky coconut milk and VROOM. VROOM. I started this at, like, 1 am.

As it blended, my mouth was biting at thin air. Soon, I’d have Ice Cream. LEGAL Ice Cream.

I took a final glance at the recipe and my heart sank. In my blind sugar rage, I failed to see the most important instruction:

Freeze for 4-6 hours or until solid as fuck.

I wept. No ice cream tonight.

But the great part: Ice Cream for Breakfast.