Happy Birthday to no one
So, my diet has basically ruined me. I didn’t do anything for my birthday this year, because it falls on a Tuesday, and nobody wants to go out so early in the week. I don’t have a job, and I don’t want to go out on Tuesdays. I figured I would at least do something birthday-ey for dinner, so I went out and got myself some awesome beer, and in a moment of sheer wickedness, some pizza. Pizza that was buy-one-get-one-free. I even got myself a bottle of that “Dry” soda, cause it’s my birthday -- why not?
Walking back from the store, I knew something was up. It felt like I was smuggling contraband. I actually ended up sitting in the parking lot outside my building, drinking the soda, because I felt a little guilty. I didn’t want my apartment to judge me for drinking something with sugar in it. This was unfortunately the high point of my birthday dinner. After unpacking all of my illicit substances and double-checking the door lock in case the fat police decided to raid me, I sat down with a beer for an evening of devil punching in Diablo.
“Sat down with a beer” was as far as I got. After spending five minutes staring at the unopened can in my hand I realized “I can’t drink this,” followed immediately by “I can’t eat that.” Unfortunate timing, since the pizzas were already in the oven. I was actually tempted to just throw them out, but since I had burned most of my meager food budget for the week, I kind of had no other choice but to pay the idiot tax and eat some goddamn pizza. Have you ever seen somebody glumly eat a pizza? You wouldn’t think it was possible, but there I was. Mastication wasn’t even needed; my razor blade-sharp self-loathing ground the pizza to smithereens for digestion.
My stomach hated me afterwards, and I can’t blame it. It also seems that my stomach can’t really handle dairy and carbs anymore, as I was full way too quickly. I ended up spending the next two days in a cycle of eating pizza, hating myself and then having my stomach hate me.
I feel far too much shame to actually weigh myself, so we’ll guesstimate it out to "Half a whale."
Tomorrow is my last cheat day for a while. I want to see what exactly my body does with a fortnight of uninterrupted dietary health. I’m trying to work out a plan where maybe I can allow myself a single meal a week, or a night where it’s okay to drink. I don’t know, though. There’s actually a serious concern that I’ll come out of this little experiment with exactly zero friends, because I’m probably a bitch after two weeks without soft serve.
