I'll have a scoop of butter pecan, a scoop of confetti, a scoop of pistachio. With fudge.

I'm beginning a weeklong juice fast on Sunday. Craig and I are going to coach each other through it until visions of Sproutman (the author of Juice Fasting & Detoxification) dance before our eyes. It sounds feasible and pretty healthy. It's time to give the boys down below a little time off. They're probably filthy.

First, I've been having fantasies about frosting. No joke. There's this bakery in Astoria and I fantasize that I break in and roll around in the window like the priest in Chocolat, licking red velvet cupcakes and chocolate whips and eating butterfat, butterfat, butterfat until I burst, burst, burst. When these fantasies are over, I repeat them. I never let myself get to reality, in which I would likely barf and be arrested for burglary.

Second, I want to see what comes out, if you know what I mean. We can't ignore that our insides are capable of getting gunky. Not everything is digestible or easy to expel.

Third, preservatives are bad. Take in enough chemicals and you're bound to be mummified before you've passed.

Fourth, I'm not working. The timing is perfect. Everyone needs a project, right? Too bad this one won't win me any tax credits.