The worst is when that happens at one of your broke-ass friend's place and you're too lazy to get up and go to the store. So you resort to eating saltines and hot sauce, or tortilla chips and ranch dressing like some deranged condiment-junkie. Then one of your boys walks by and tries to give you shit for eating like a derelict, until he looks in the fridge and realizes you're a fucking junk-food genious because your only other options were fossilized KFC and three-week old rice pilaf (which looks strangely appetizing). He sits down to hawk on your saltines and hot sauce, so you pull them in close to your chest as if you were guarding some estranged newborn, give him the ill squinty-eyed Terminator look and mumbe something about tyrants and revolution.
Then you both erupt in catatonic laughter the next morning when you wake up and realize that last night, for over an hour, you actually sat around eating complete bullshit and watching Murder She Wrote on mute.
The only silver lining is that cigarettes and weed make me shit like crazy, so anything I eat in that state usually comes out with the quickness.