Picture it. One week ago. I had been in Los Angeles for a little over five months, and I could already feel the metamorphosis. I have a gym membership. I bitch about traffic on the 405. I preface highways with “the”. I hike, for Christ’s sake. But there was one Los Angeles obstacle I had yet to conquer: The Juice Cleanse. A staple amongst socialites and housewives alike, the juice cleanse is to Los Angeles what cheese is to Wisconsin. You can’t have one without the other, people. So, I did it. Five (well…) days of exclusively liquid consumption. It was unbearable and I’m entirely certain that I’ve suffered some sort of PTSD. Anyway. Without further ado, here is the tale of my final hurdle in becoming a true Los Angelan:

1 hour in: My god, I am incredible. Wow, I’m the healthiest son of a bitch on the planet. Is my skin green? Do I glow? I glow. I am juice. Juice is me. I juice, therefore I am.

3 hours in: The instructions say I can’t have caffeine.

3 hours, 2 minutes in: Yeah, we’re gonna ignore that little tidbit. And I’ll go ahead and pull “attention to detail” off my resume.

7 hours in: This green juice tastes like a foot.

7 hours, 5 minutes in: Actually, this green juice tastes like a foot dipped in tar. Twice.

12 hours in: Holy. Shit.

13 hours in: I must sleep. Anything to stop the hunger.

24 hours in: Coffee. The light of my life. I love you more than I will love my first-born child.

30 hours in: I am a 24-year-old Helga G. Pataki. I hate everything. I hate everyone. The only thing I want is Arnold. And Arnold is a burrito.

35 hours in: I. Am. Starving. This is hunger. This is the face of hunger. Those African kids think they have it bad? Please.

37 hours in: My only wish is to die in my sleep.

52 hours in: I have begun to empathize with Dexter. The serial killer. I get it, man. Like, I get it.

53 hours in: “Yeah, can I get 4 McMuffins and a Diet Coke please? Watching my figure and all.”

53 hours and 2 minutes in: My contentment level mirrors that of SpongeBob SquarePants after finally passing his Boater’s License Test. I will never marry because I will never find someone I love as much as I love this McMuffin.

54 hours in: *Throws away the three remaining days of juices*

So, there you have it. The age-old tale of a girl and her juice cleanse. And her McMuffins. Enjoy your week, folks. Eat like a champion today.