I eventually relented, and gave him my scale. It’s locked in the trunk of his wife’s car now, and I won’t be getting it back for two weeks. In that time I will be returning to following the diet I started this blog with, to the letter. That means three meals a day, broccoli, beans and meat. I spend too much time worrying about my weight; I’m on the scale at least twice a day, and when I’m not weighing myself obsessively, I’m trying to not eat at all. Neither of these things are particularly healthy, or interesting to read about, so, for your enjoyment, I am going to “slowly” go insane over the next fortnight.

 

Make no mistake, that is what will happen. I haven’t weighed myself in 14 hours, and I’m not a happy camper. I’m running a bracket in my apartment to find out who the next inanimate object scapegoat will be. Right now the front runners are the two-faced router, and the fedora that cheats at Monopoly. 

 

I hate my scale, I really do. It’s a stupid thing and I regret ever buying it. That stupid metal box is just a mirror to my own shortcomings. If my scale had a mother, I would probably date her but not call her back. I’m sure she would be a fine lady, but her son is such a jerk, and maybe it would make him feel bad. 

 

So why did I fight to keep it? It’s gone now, there’s an empty place in my bathroom, and I kind of hate to admit it, but I miss the little fucker.