This article is part of The 100 Days Offensive. Got to Day 33 or Day 35.
Monday, 10:00 am: On urgent medical advice I started fasting today. These lines shall document the infinite suffering for posterity and serve as a stark reminder to future generations.
Monday, 10:02 a.m .: I took the first challenge with flying colors. A bar of chocolate that was only half eaten yesterday thought it could lure me into its catch. Hah! I leave it there with my contempt as companion.
Monday, 10:09 a.m .: First feelings of hunger appear. But I am mentally prepared for this primitive agony. Nothing can shake my determination.
Monday, 10:15 a.m .: The first bottle of mineral water is now just history. I have read that you should drink a lot during fasting.
Monday, 10:17 a.m .: The mineral water tank is empty. To the now growling hunger adds unrestrained thirst.
Monday, 10:22 a.m .: First olfactory hallucinations appear. I think I can taste the food that is cooked in the university cafeteria half a mile away.
Monday, 10:27 a.m .: Due to an offered but not accepted biscuit, my colleagues discovered my sore point and started to discuss recipes and constantly offer me new chocolates and other delicacies. I complain to the boss about this calorie based bullying.
Monday, 10:42 am: With great difficulty I shoved my colleagues out of the office. But loneliness increases the hunger further.
Monday, 10:55 am: I just looked in the mirror. The sight is terrifying. The cheeks are sunken in and the eyes are bloodshot. Maybe I should take some vitamins.
Monday, 11:03 am: A crackle makes me startle. The opened chocolate bar is slowly creeping towards me. It has moved at least 10 cm.
Monday, 11:08 a.m .: The reflecting sunlight on the tinfoil paper blinds my eyes. But this candy bar cannot fool me. But I register with horror it's further approach.
Monday, 11:15 a.m .: I want to escape, but it is too late. A biscuit package cleverly deposited by an insidious colleague cut off my way to the door.
Monday, 11:21 am: In the closet I hear the peanuts rumbling in their aluminium prison. How long can the weak, thin metal withstand this culinary violence?
Monday, 11:26 a.m .: Slowly and inconspicuously I worked my way to the window. My opponents seem inattentive. Perhaps I can escape their grasp at the last second.
Monday, 11:28 am: What I thought to be inattention was just a nifty trap. Right in front of the window, a cherry tree just lurks. fully loaded with its fruits.
Monday, 11:34 a.m .: I have withdrawn to the files. Covered by the archive "Bookings 2016/17" and armed with a letter opener, I intend to make my last stand here.
Monday, 11:38 a.m .: Cowardly pack! Instead of attacking me openly and honestly, the food circles around me. They are probably betting on a long siege. As already mentioned, the water is gone. If I ever get out of here, I will set up a cistern for such purposes in my office.
Monday, 11:42 a.m .: No further development in this merciless game of positioning. But I have the feeling that my opponents are planning something.
Monday, 11:48 a.m .: Treason! A cheese roll was discovered under the folder "Overdue payments 4/17". My positions are infiltrated. In a final act of strength I threw it out of my stronghold. But my reserves are exhausted.
Monday, 11:52 a.m .: The moral impact of the siege is devastating. Now I can imagine what General Custer must have felt about the Little Big Horn.
Monday, 11:58 am: I physically and mentally at the end. Stranger, tell the restaurant that we behaved as they would wish us to, and are buried here. ....
Monday, 12:00 p.m .: It's time for the counter strike. A quick sortie, strong bite and
the chocolate is done for. Only a few crumbs tell of the end that I put to the biscuits and cheese roll. The tree in front of my window crouches; he knows that his hour has come..... And I will no longer allow the dentist to give me a filling after which you are not allowed to eat for two hours.