Welp, I did not make 259 this weekend, unfortunately, but what I did make was an interesting revelation.
About halfway through ritualistically drowning my scale in my own homebrew Dip, I decided I have way too much too worry about in my life already right now to worry about why my body is being stingy with the poundage recently.
I feel like I’m getting dangerously close to a depressive slide of ridiculous proportions. The half-mad chemist living in my head is about to get just shitty drunk and forget how to portion out chemicals to my brain. Already I can feel my reserves of “reason” going dry and “optimism” right behind it. I just know that drunk fool is going to try and flood my head with apathy. This just won’t do; apathy cannot be allowed to fester inside my brain meats. If I don’t do something to fix this, soon, I’m fairly certain I’m going to spend the next 19 hours in bed watching Boardwalk Empire. I won’t even be watching the show, I’ll just be drifting in and out, trying to figure out the most interesting pronunciation of “Scorsese.”
To this end. I’ve compiled a list of things that I don’t want to do, but am going to make myself complete before 5pm. This is my trick for fending off depression. Feel free to use it; it keeps you busy, and forces you to actually feel accomplished at the end of the day, which is just the best kind of feeling sometimes. It also acts as a buffer against your brain turning into an anxiety riddled asshole at 3am:
First on my list: Put on pants to write update (check!)
That might be all I’ve gotten done so far, but don’t worry, it’s only the first on many. I’m also going to renegotiate the terms of my lease on “Fortress of Solitude,” and then do push-ups until I cry(maybe 20).But first I’m going to force myself to eat lunch -- I don’t do that enough these days.
I weigh two hundred and sixty four pounds, and it’s not big deal.
It’s such a big fucking deal. Do it, you dumb asshole. Drop below 260. Do it, for fucks sake.