Before you get all up in arms at what I’m about to say, let me just preface it with “I’M NOT.”
Yesterday was a decent day…until I decided to weigh myself on the calibrated scales at work. See, I’d posted that I was on day 16 of no sugared sodas (today is day 17), but that I was fitting more comfortably in between the washer and the wall (our washer and dryer are in the bedroom closet, and since the dryer is a front-loader, it has to be in front of the door; the washer is tucked next to it behind the wall. to put laundry in, you have to squeeze between the front of the washer and the wall).
Well fuck all that nonsense. I’m still 249, and that just shot my day all to shit.
I had cheese for dinner. That was it. Third of a block of mild cheddar.
Whilst eating breakfast this morning (two pancake & sausage dogs), I turned to Mr Realist and commented:
“You know, I could go into the bathroom and puke this up, and it wouldn’t bother me.”
And at this point, I don’t think it would.
I hate the fucking rain and snow, and the fact that our gym in town is so god-damned expensive and whilst they have an indoor track, their “Track Pass” is only good Monday through Friday, 8-3.30. What. The. Fucking. Fuck. I fucking WORK, you fistful of assholes (I love that line from Nick & Nora, so I used it).
I think I need some professional help, LDs, for more than one reason. But I can’t afford it.
Fuck me and my fat ass.