Desperately seeking carnie
Okay, I don’t think I’m eating enough. This is unfortunate, to be messing a diet up because you're not pounding protein into your gullet as frequently as required, but there it is. It’s been a rough week, I guess, and I just can’t bring myself to eat the dumber meals, like breakfast. I forced myself to eat right after I woke up today, and now my stomach feels like the trash compactor on the Death Star, Carrie Fisher’s career died in there, and something with an eyestalk is roaming around.
Despite this, I’ve been on the nose with the diet all week. Broccoli and beans litter my apartment right now, So even with my inability to eat at regular intervals, I was feeling pretty good about things, so I decided to see what kind of progress I was making. This is when I remembered my scale is locked up in the trunk of a car. I had managed to forget about it for a couple of days, but now, being reminded of its absence, my body has begun to itch, profusely. I’ve heard meth addicts describe a similar sensation, and the fact that I feel I might be relating to meth heads in this is really fucking unsettling.
I got desperate the other night and walked around downtown, hoping to find a good-natured but down-on-his-luck carnie who could tell me how much I weigh in exchange for a hot dog or some other form of barter. I didn’t find one, but learned that “guessing” a man’s “weight” is hooker code for some freaky shit.
I guess the whole thing is working, though. Tomorrow is my cheat day, and I’m genuinely nervous about eating anything, since I won’t know its affect on me for a couple of weeks.
This is getting stressful and I’m starting to miss that little guy.
I’m told there’s a list of words that will never see the light of day on this site. When writing about the scale, I used all of those words, twice. I can say with some confidence that I created an entire sub language just based around the words ****** and ****. I’m proud of this, and wish the suits in charge would let me share it with you.
