Sugar Coma Quotes

إن بلادنا في حاجة إلى جرعات قوية من قلة الأدب حيال الملوك حتى تفيق من إغمائها الطويل

The funny thing about Thanksgiving ,or any big meal, is that you spend 12 hours shopping for it then go home and cook,chop,braise and blanch. Then it's gone in 20 minutes and everybody lies around sortof in a sugar coma and then it takes 4 hours to clean it up.

Until then I’m going to eat an entire bucket of Rolos and slip into a food coma.” “Do Rolos cause food comas? All that sugar would produce the opposite effect, don’t you think?” she asked as though I was seriously going to eat an entire bucket of Rolos. “After the high there would surely be a crash.” “But that would take too long.” “You’re right. Thank goodness you’ve talked some sense into me.” “Another reason you keep me around.” “One of a million.

Show up for your own life, he said. Don't pass your days in a stupor, content to swallow whatever watery ideas modern society may bottle-feed you through the media, satisfied to slumber through life in an instant-gratification sugar coma. The most extraordinary gift you've been given is your own humanity, which is about conciousness, so honor that consciousness. Revere your senses; don't degrade them with drugs, with depression, with wilful oblivion. Try to notice something new everyday, Eustace said. Pay attention to even the most modest of daily details. Even if you're not in the woods, be aware at all times. Notice what food tastes like; notice what the detergent aisle in the supermarket smells like and recognize what those hard chemical smells do to your senses; notice what bare feet fell like; pay attention every day to the vital insights that mindfulness can bring. And take care of all things, of every single thing there is - your body, your intellect, your spirit, your neighbours, and this planet. Don't pollute your soul with apathy or spoil your health with junk food any more than you would deliberately contaminate a clean river with industrial sludge.

On hurricane days, when most women are filling their grocery carts with bread and milk, Miss Lana loads ours with candy, cakes, and tapered candles. If I die in the storm, I'll drift away in the arms of a sugar coma and candlelight, she always says.

After that, we don’t talk, instead we get hammered. Shot after shot we down, chasing each one with a Little Debbie snack. Before we know it, we’re hanging on to the bar counter floating around in a sugar and alcohol coma, just the way I like it. “There’s my girl,” Racer shouts as he topples off his stool and onto the floor, laughing hysterically. Georgie stops in her tracks and looks over at Emma, who’s standing next to her, both holding two boxes of Little Debbie snacks each. “Emmmmmmmma,” Tucker drags out, waving his glass in the air. “You brought the snacks.” “Oh, Jesus,” Emma mutters as she approaches us. I point to my mouth and say, “Feed me. Daddy needs sugar.” Racer is beside me, tangled in the pegs of his bar stool, still laughing. “Did you bring Oatmeal Pies, George? Please tell me you have the pies.” “Uh, I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” she says, looking down at her boyfriend. “Never!” Racer struggles to get up and finally knocks the chair over to free himself. “Fucking bitch chair, digging into me with its claws.” Talking to the stool directly he says, “I’m taken, warm someone else’s ass.” “He’s going to propose, chair, leave him alone,” Tucker announces, causing me to cringe. “Dude, don’t say it out loud.” I punch Tucker in the shoulder. “Georgie is right there.” All three of us turn to Georgie, who’s shaking her head in humor. Hopefully. “I’ll take Aaron,” Emma tells Georgie. “Seems like Racer is more of a handful.” “Hell yeah, I am.” Racer stumbles while cupping his crotch. “A giant handful.” Georgie rolls her eyes. “And that’s our cue to leave.” “But we didn’t eat our snacks.” “Seems like you had enough.” Georgie grabs Racer by the hand. “Come on.” As they walk away, Racer asks, “Want to have sex in the car?” “Not even a little.” “Here, you two, you can have your boxes of snacks.” Emma hands Tucker and me both a box of Oatmeal Pies that we clutch to our chests. “You’re the best,” I admit. “She is, isn’t she?” Tucker says. “I love her so fucking hard. Best wife ever.” She pulls on both of our hands to get us moving. “She wins wife of the year award,” I announce. “Best wife goes to Emma. Can we get a round of applause?” Tucker breaks open his Oatmeal Pies and starts spraying them like confetti. “Emma. Emma. Emma.” He chants, getting the three other patrons in the bar to join in. I pump my fist as well, forgetting everything from earlier. I knew I could count on my guys. “Emma. Emma. Emma . . .” And then, everything fades to black. Emotions and feelings are non-existent as I pass out, just the way I like it. Just the way I need it.

I didn’t know if you took sugar.” “I don’t.” “Let me guess. You’re sweet enough?” My voice dripped with sarcasm. “No, Lang. I’m not sweet. Not even a little. And coffee isn’t supposed to be sweet, either. It’s meant to taste like battery acid. It’s meant to keep you awake, not put you into a sugar coma.

Elevated blood sugars populated David’s brain the same way they swamped his blood. His increased blood sugar correlated with increasing glucose within his brain. David’s mind became toxic from that increased amount of sugar sponged with water. Plumped up thinking cells were bogged down with too much glucose and the accompanying fluid. Swollen brain cells clouded David’s thinking, much like a concussion. He couldn’t focus as the electrical messages short-circuited in this swamp of sugar-water. His thoughts drifted away, and sometimes his speech slurred. If David recruited most of his brain cells into this toxicity, he would have slipped into a coma and died. It’s true!

Hurray, we’re getting drunk and going into a sugar coma. Bring ice cream cones. Tomorrow is going to be a bitch.

Was Arben alive when they brought him here, or had he lapsed into a diabetic coma? When the brain doesn't get enough glucose, or receives too much, it cannot function properly. The symptoms can appear slowly: an altered mental state, an inability to speak, drowsiness, weakness, headaches, restlessness, shaking, an irregular heartbeat, an eventually the loss of consciousness. If left untreated, it results in permanent brain damage and utlmately, death.

I spent the rest of the night trying to not look over at the boy with the greenest eyes, who was busy in his laptop. He was alone and there was a large plate with four servings of knafeh on the table. I did a double take, amazed that someone would be able to eat all of that and not fall into a sugar coma.

Or maybe eat chocolate until I fell into a sugar coma after drafting a sternly worded DNR on a wrapper. I’m sure that would be legally binding.