This weekend happened, that’s pretty much the best way to describe it. I didn’t even really mess up my diet on Saturday, which is somewhat unfortunate because it was my cheat day. I ate a burger, I remember that. And whisky, lots of whisky. Is whisky a food? I’m going to go ahead and assume so for the purposes of this update. It was a friend's birthday, which happened to be hosted on the roof of an apartment building. It being balls-hot outside, my natural reaction was of course to put ice cubes in alcohol and trust that to cool myself. I am not smart, by any definition of the word.
I might not exactly remember a lot of that day, aside from the singular burger and massive quantities of hill people milk, also that I’m apparently the best beer pong player the world has ever seen. I await my endorsement offers.
Maybe I did fuck up my diet -- I’m not entirely sure where Brown liquor falls on the “Shit to not put into my body” scale. I hope it’s pretty low, right around “Floor M&M, after 5 seconds,” but knowing my luck, it’s probably up there with mac & cheese, which an empty container of is coincidentally sitting on my counter. I don’t remember eating it. That’s a good sign.
I weigh 267 right now. I’m not super excited about it, but whatever, I feel pretty good. My foot is almost back to full functionality and my thumb is finally showing signs of improvement. I bet I could even thumbwrestle a 5th grader right now with better than average odds of victory. Being fat is dumb. Being broken is annoying. Being both fat and broken is just unfortunate.
I have a collarbone now. It’s not a new thing, it’s been around for months now, but I still find myself staring at it every chance I get. Also my wrists are looking like soft, rolling hills. This is an improvement over the smooth mound of mashed potato look of old. Also I can kind of feel that really cool vein skinny people have running up their arm. I don’t know what it’s called, but if you see me lovingly stroking my arm, you know why.