I have not a single fond memory of the grapefruits, nor the cabbage soup nor that one time when I ate only eggs and sausage for four months. Phen-fen made me look like I just flew in on a broomstick and meridia and caffeine and vitamin injections were all equally speedicous and otherwise lacking consequence. Only my wallet got skinny. I've done yoga and high fiber and low fat and no fat. Hoodia and tips from Gulia and scubida. I've done high dairy and no dairy and Special K and ecstasy, eaten in and out of zones, tried high protein and everything in moderation while clocking thousands of hours of cardio, all to no avail. Yes, I've called Jenny. She hung up on me. I've tried weight watchers online and offline and attempted a grass roots movement to implement the first ever text-message only chapter. I'm sorry but those weekly pep rallys are really just insipid.
(Hmm.. I wonder what Freud would have to say about my planning my next meal during the second bite of a 1/3lb burger)?
Today I have reached a strange new low as cigarettes have suddenly been relieved of all satisfaction. I burn one after the other after the other seeking a solution that they refuse to provide. Chocolate, too, has suddenly become strangely argumentative, refusing to provide taste or comfort. It's like the gimmie-food sensor in my brain that has been hyperactive all this time (you know the one that is tickled by THC, the one that makes you have to have pancakes at 3am or a hot dog on Independence day and is solely responsible for the invention of the Fluffernutter) is now soothed as if wrapped in an electric blanket and a fat tempurpedic pillow. Or maybe my comfort sensor is mad at me and refusing to put out. Maybe it just needs some space.
Before this new Misery, nothing has ever so much as successfully squelched my addiction for longer than the time it took to find a dollar in quarters for the vending machine. My affliction is food and I haven't had any in three days. The idea of food repulses me so much right now that I am, for the first time ever, considering consuming "meal replacement" items for nourishment not punishment.
I wonder if this is how all those coked-up twiggy starlets feel. Walking around in a crooked cloud of wooze. Safe in a room full of devil dogs. All desire dissipated. Not even willing to get up and turn on a light. Strangely, none of this seems to have effected my work.
Really, it's not so bad. I look forward to fading from content and bloated happiness to a mortgage-free emaciated ache. At least I've got that going for me.