Last night at 2:30am, my stomach exploded. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t care. I either want it to stop or to kill me, as long as it happens soon. I’m ready and willing to sell or donate half of my organs right now. I will gladly put my life into the hands of some machine if it means I can stop curling up into a ball on my kitchen floor. I’m supposed to be cat-sitting for Flesh Wizard right now, but since I’m convinced that there is a very real possibility that my body will implode on the way there, I’m nervous about leaving my apartment.
Well, I’m more nervous about making a mess in my car. I really like that car.
Thanks to drinking I’ve actually managed to gain weight this week. Not a lot, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be gone by tomorrow morning, but I’m sitting at 267. It’s been a heartbreakingly rough week, but I’m taking a little comfort that this weight gain is because of beer, and not mounds of shitty food.
My next diet “mission” launches on Monday. I’m not really ready to talk about it yet, but shit is going to get real. I’m pretty sure that I will end up going insane, and it’s not outside the realm of possibility that somebody will get cut, with knives, plural.
I was at a friends apartment a few months ago, for a gaming day. One amazing thing about my circle of like-minded discontents is that they’ve been incredibly supportive about me losing weight, and wonderfully can’t shut the fuck up about how skinny I’m getting. Even at my fattest there’s somebody coming out of the woodwork to tell me how “goddamned skinny” I look. I like this. That was the scenario on this particular game day. I was feeling quite good about myself, until I had to go to the bathroom, and immediately broke the toilet seat. I don’t even think it was a fat thing, I’m pretty sure the seat was loose, but damn it.
