William Hunger

At midnight tonight, the 72 hour juice fast will, officially, be over.

Twenty minutes ago, I brought home a large Maui Zaui pizza from Round Table. It's sitting here, next to me, teasing me with its olfactory charms. I look over at it periodically, my eyes irresistibly drawn to it, then a quick glance at the clock. "Oh yes, just 2 and a half hours to go, and you'll be mine.. all mine," I whisper. One second after midnight, I will shove one of its coquettish triangles into my mouth with gusto.

I don't mean to complain or to be overly dramatic, but I really don't like fasting. About a year and a half ago, when we sustained ourselves for three days on water alone (all those adventures are here in case you're feeling nostalgic), my body essentially shut down, save for hallucinogenic visions of Lindsay Lohan and Tony Robbins. This juice fast has been relatively easier, but still difficult for me.

Again, all the moments of my life were experienced in the context of the fast. Hunger was my constant companion - a glass or two of juice made it easier to ignore, but it never went away. The passage of time was simply progress towards the end. Sleep, and rereading Harry Potter Book 6, was a convenient way to pass that time.

Unfortunately, for an estimated 13 million American kids, including many at Garfield, this constant feeling of hunger is not, as it is for me, a 72 hour test of mental toughness.