My Body Talks Like Jennifer Coolidge

My Body Talks Like Jennifer Coolidge

I think that I’m pregnant.

*He’s seen my middle school portrait.

No, not really. This would be both physically and spiritually impossible as even Jesus would not touch this with a ten-foot pole if only by immaculate conception*. No, this radical assumption is the only way to rationalize the breakfast that I chose this morning that, if it were a McDonalds breakfast item it would dutifully be named a McClusterfuck.

I’ve had plenty of weird cravings in my lifetime. Chocolate chips melted on Cheez-Its? Sure. Cinnamon spiced scrambled eggs and apples with curry seasoning and turmeric? Tell me something I don’t know. But this morning… this morning was something for the books, or at least for the blog(s).

I normally make my breakfast the night before commuting to save time in the morning, but after viewing Emma Roberts’ rigor mortis body locked in an attic on American Horror Story, there was no way in HELL that I was traveling upstairs. So, as I threw on my pajama set disguised as a denim jumpsuit at 5:30 AM, I asked my body what she wanted to eat for breakfast.

Here is what she said.*

*Note, my body speaks in a register similar to that of Jennifer Coolidge in Legally Blonde.

“Morning, bod. Whatcha want for breakfast?”

“Egg whites. Quark. Fruit. Spinach. Salt. And peanut butter to be quite honest.”

“…Um, cumquat? You want all of those things… together?”

“Yes, and Make It Snappy, dumbass.”

K, Jennifer Coolidge. Executive orders. 

I threw two egg whites and torn spinach into my weird microwaveable soufflé dish, cranked salt on top and let it “cook” while I spread quark (a delicious yogurt-y cheese that I recently discovered) on a warmed tortilla, and threw on some sliced nectarine for good measure. Once the egg whites were done, I threw that hockey puck on top, added some coriander(?), and rolled it up into a beautiful baton to lead a parade of uncertainty to the train.

*See what I did there? Sexual tension.

**No blindfolds involved. Only hooded masks.

Now, I’m a firm Belieber that my body knows what it wants just as much as Selena Gomez’s heart wants what it wants*. I went to a pretty intense strengthening class the night before that involved staring at my rear end in the mirror while suspended in boot straps from the ceiling** and I think that my muscles were like YOOOO HELP A BROTHA OUT.

Think about it—Egg whites, quark, and spinach are all excellent sources of protein, fruit boosts your sugars, and salt replenishes sweat. Had I remembered the peanut butter before storming out the door I would have had me a body builders’ delight.

I bit in to my wrap with much skepticism and zero expectations, and well. Here’s what happened.


Taste: I honestly really don’t know. It didn’t taste bad, but it certainly wasn’t the most delicious thing that I ever ate. In sum, it was corporeally satisfying. Hadn’t the only available wrap in my house been Everything Bagel flavored, I might have actually enjoyed it with certainty.

Portability: 🚂🚂🚂🚂 Barring a bit of quark goop, this rating’s rationale comes the archives of my submitted lyrics to Drake: “Tortilla baton trumps all, Donald.”

Likelihood of Trying Again: I am pleading the fifth on this one because I am confident that I will be processing this breakfast for an upwards of 5 or so years.


How frequently do you disgust yourself based on gastronomical choices?

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