Fail

When life fails, dieting fails. At least with me it does.

I have previously given up chocolate and soda and decided to try to eat less and a little more healthy. If I had to grade myself, I'd give me a "C."

I did fairly well, staying away from the evil, but resorted back to my old ways when I decided that my only source of comfort was a cheesesteak, with extra mayo of course, a slice of pizza and half a two liter of Cherry Coke. Rest assured though, with every single bite I damned myself.

Yeah, I know. Let's all say it together now: FAIL.

I know that conquering the task of eating healthy is going to be difficult, but finding a more suitable substitute to soothe my despair is going to be almost impossible.

The more I think about it, I begin to think that maybe food is an addiction in a way.

In times past, I used alcohol to escape my own pitiful reality. This created a label for me: Alcoholic. When I had kids, I had to find something else. Something that wouldn't leave me a drunken naked mess on the floor almost drowning in my own puke. Something a little healthier, if you will. So I saw a doctor. He prescribed me Klonopin. (I still don't understand why it's morally acceptable to take addictive prescription drugs when you're about to have a 'spaz-attack,' but when you're actually 'addicted' it's somehow your fault.) Klonopin helped, until I realized that it was the only thing that actually turned me into a super-nice person and everyone liked that so much more than my sober-self. So, I proceeded to take Klonopin and Percocets in order that the 'bitch' within me dissapated... until the drugs wore off, ofcourse. Having visions in my head of prostitutes porkin' men to get their fix, I decided maybe I should allow the 'bitch' in me to take over again so I wouldn't find myself workin' corners to support this upcoming habit.

Now sober, and hopeless, I eat. I mean, its not illegal. I don't think I'll ever suck dick for doughnuts, and it's something that I can do with other people. The only person it is hurting in the long run, is me. So what's the harm right?

How stupid am I? The harm? I have self-esteem issues and complex emotional problems, but if I turn into a 700 pound Wooly Mammoth, I'll be okay?

This is where I'm at right now. (Well not quite 700 lbs.)

In conclusion, in addition to giving up the calories I'm also going to have to search within myself to come up with another coping mechanism.

This week: I am giving up potato chips. (Unless they're fat free.)