I’M LOOKING AT myself in the mirror.
What I’m not seeing is a trim youthful 24-year-old version of myself.
What I’m really seeing is a 52-year overweight old man.
He isn’t smiling back at me.
It’s more a peculiar look.
A riddle is written on his face.
He’s cynical.
He’s jaded.
He’s fed up.
He’s on a mission not to get fucked over.
Moreover, he’s an angry fuck and he says, ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ And I’m too timid to say I’m looking at an obese fuck.
And he’s too tired to argue the case that he isn’t.
Partnership?
Like with any kind of partnership, commitment is needed.
Wait, let me find my pills.
Discipline too. No, I won’t take two of them. Only one.
Getting prescriptions for these candies isn’t easy so go steady.
Besides, owning up to doubling or trippling up will only freak out your doctor.
And he’ll respond in kind by never prescribing you anything.
It’s not for their general concern of you.
It’s so that they don’t lose their medical practitioner’s license.
Self-restraint.
Also.
I’m going for a thirty today.
A thirty and a forty.
A thirty and a forty.
I know you have no idea what I’m talking about.
Dosage.
I’m going to mix things up.
Trick the body.
It doesn’t respond otherwise.
Always keep things interesting.
Never go on auto-pilot.
Fat only respond to excitement.
It will never burn if you suppress the fun element of dieting.
Dieting is never fun.
Dieting is useless unless you are a chef.
Or a Hollywood star.
You praise yourself for gluttoning on red and green grapes.
No-no-no.
That’s fructose and carbohydrates.
Your fat is raving now.
‘Give me fucking more.’
It’s storing up around the love handles.
The tummy.
And you are kidding yourself because you are eating fruit that you are actually dieting.
Apparently not.