So, I just ate Cheese for two days. I love cheese. It makes everything better, as far as I’m concerned. When I worked in a restaurant during college, the other line-cooks and I would take some shredded cheddar and jack cheese, roll it into a ball the size of a large marble, dip it in beer batter, then deep fry it, and then dip the finished product in ranch dressing. That’s some serious cheese love, or at the very least a distinct disdain for your arteries. But that’s the thing, you need to have cheese in addition to other things. At least I do. Give me some bread, or a cracker, or a hunk of meat, or even a “doodle” and some cheese and I’m all set.  But by itself, that’s just not my style.

The only cheese I ever had by itself is string cheese. And that was when I was eight. But I loaded up on some the other day and it’s all I ate for a full 48 hours. I feel ashamed eating this stuff. Peeling of these fibrous lengths of low-grade mozzarella. It’s fun when you’re a kid, but no adults eat string cheese. No one’s ever like, “This year’s profits have increased by 75% over the last fiscal year,” then rips off a big strand of string cheese.

Overall it hasn’t been that bad. But that’s how these long-term super-restrictive diets are. If you can get past the first few days it becomes kind of easy.

I have to admit though that I haven’t found the pizzerias of New York City as accommodating when I try to pull this maneuver:

Bellisimo!