---Ritual of Aleister Crowley
Status: There is ten days left of Succulent Sobriety's bratty lil' illegitimate spawn. I'm a lil' over sixty hours into the water fast. Hunger is beginning to paw at the interior of my stomach lining. It rumbles like a rock tumblr. It occasionally purrs. Basically the point of a water fast is hardcore detox where the body cleanses itself of damn near everything, and since over the past decade the shit I've put into my body would be the equivalent of making coffee with a used maxi-pad--my body has a lot of shit it is trying to exile via hourly trips to the urinal.Sometime during the next 24 hours my stomach will begin to eat and digest itself, gnawing intestinal slabs of excess meat, the stomach churning in nuasetaing chomps, devouring particles of my being.
I feel light-headed. Since I'm not taking any vitamins my skin is turning chalky--the color of an overdose suicide aspirin or William S. Burroughs' forehead (take your pick).
The third day is purported to be the most arduous. In Santa Rosa, California there is a week long water detox clinic where patients check themselves in for a week and can't leave the buildings. They also can't brush their teeth, where cologne or shower b/c (as I am experiencing vividly today) not having food makes you dizzy as fuck. It gives you vertigo and you might topple down in the shower. Writer Ben Marcus recently did a six-day fast at the clinic, "... water fasters stand out, because they cling to the wall when they walk. They take the stairs slowly."
Maybe my brain is going crazy.
Or maybe the Twinkie are just plain old.