My plan for this weekend was to lull my body into a false sense of security. The goal was to feed it, a lot. Mission accomplished I guess. I now hate food with a passion usually reserved for Khan, or Billy Corgan. I’m not joking around, it was bad, I even went to a Arby’s on Saturday. Arby’s, where the food is gray, and the counter person might have just hit on you. I guess that part isn’t specifically a knock against Arby's, though. I clean up well and she was impressed that my earhole plugs matched my shoes.
I am now ready to shock my body back into weight loss, I really hope this works, because anything less than total body shrinkage would trivialize the trauma I experienced this weekend. It’s still too fresh in my mind to even make jokes about it.
I’m actually oddly encouraged about this weekend’s stuffing exercise; it helped to illustrate a massive change in my attitude about food. Where I used to see my security blanket, I now view food as the antagonist, a broken-toothed howling imp, always lurking in my peripheral. It raves and raves, but it knows that its hold over me has been lost. One day I will slay it with a contextually appropriate weapon, like a bag, filled with clothes. On that day my victory will be complete.
I have a bag filled with fat clothes sitting in my closet. It’s a giant black garbage bag, and it’s my new therapist. His name is Dr. Hefty Cinch, and he is very good at what he does. Every time I get a stupid “I’m a fat fuck” feeling sneaking into my brain, I try on something that I don’t think will fit me anymore. It doesn’t, so it goes in the bag. Feels good, man. Feels good.
Oh yeah, I weigh 267 right now. Wow, that’s not super great.
Throwing clothes into a bag is my new favorite thing. It’s like I’m burying my fat one pound at a time. I think there’s a market out there somewhere for a "Throw your self-loathing into a plastic bag" franchise. Maybe workshops at the YMCA, or an audiotape or something.