Yes. It kills..at least it kills me.
First, I must say, that if ever in the lovely Tenderloin area of San Francisco, stop in at a little hole-in-the-wall-former-jazz-club called 222...not only are the music and atmosphere great (especially Friday night happy hour--shameless plug for DJ Brion) but the pizza is the best pizza I've ever nearly died for.
Seriously. I'd consider putting myself through the pain and suffering again just to taste the thinnest, most Italian crust ever tasted on American soil...topped with bleu cheese, pears, basil?...I am drooling...I loved every bite.
And paid for three-and-a-half days straight. The worst day being Monday. See, I'm smart: if I'm going to fuck my body up by eating mass quantities of wheat, I take it easy for a day or so... Saturday (all day) and Sunday (most of the day) I ate bland foods: rice, veggies, eggs, sushi...basic stuff. I was feeling okay.
Then I ate a steak for dinner on Sunday. With Cheesy potatoes. And a salad with cherry vinaigrette...and wine...and coffee.
Ohh. I was miserable. I paid. My body told me: "FUCK YOU! You think you can go gorge yourself on pizza, then try to make me digest a steak and cheesy potatoes. GO TO HELL, Bitch!"
Yup, no more wheat for me. Just say no. Don't let me do it. Smack me if I try.