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Thursday, August 3rd, 2006
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4:11p - Sometimes I don't mind Hughes so much.
Times like this, I'm thankful, if annoyed, by the many limitations my Hughes Syndrome has placed on my daily activities.
TO WIT:
I figured yesterday that, after the day I was having, it would be entirely within the bounds of reason for me to be hit by a bus at some point just to put a capper on things. Now, the liberating thing about realizing you're probably going to be hit by a bus is this: it doesn't matter if you're trying to lose weight, because you're dead and cannot wear revealing swimsuits anyway. Moreover, being fat will help keep your corpse intact and less like flattened roadkill. So you may as well eat cookies. And the sort of day I was having necessitated cookies. The fact that I will eventually get fifteen thousand dollars back from somebody (because I fully expect that Wellsfargo will find yet another way to fuck this up, and they absolutely do not fix their own mistakes; eventually I feel Chase is good people and they will reissue if necessary, particularly since we're switching accounts to them now and telling WellsFargo that Satan skull-fucks them right in the place their souls would be) does not mitigate the fact that, holy shit, I've lost fifteen thousand dollars. I am new at this particular kind of fuckery, and that means I need cookies. I don't even eat cookies as a general rule. But I checked on WebMD and they said this condition of shitfuckery is often treated with cookies, and it sounds like reasonable advice to me.
So I went to the grocery store. I broke a cardinal rule of grocery shopping: I knew that I'm having a bit of PMS (not the irritability, that's WellsFargo's fault; No, I'm on to the stage where everything starchy looks like manna from God) and I went to the bakery anyway. I broke another cardinal rule: I shopped by impulse. If it looked good - and my hormones at that moment decided Willy Wonka was the arbiter of good cuisine - I picked it up. Because, you know, the bus. I had the stereotypically fat person's shopping cart, the one where you look at a fat person buying all this stuff and clucking in disapproval, at least internally - hell, if I see a rail-skinny person with this kind of shopping cart it makes me sad inside. And because I can't commit to anything fully, I somehow wound up with healthy stuff for dinner and for later chili-making. Portabello mushrooms and snap peas look very odd in such a cart. But the non-hormonal part of me really wanted them, because it was reasonable.
I got home and fixed myself a plate of milk and cookies. HEAPING plate of cookies. So many cookies that Santa would be sweating in anticipation and offering me the nubile elf he has trussed in the back of his sleigh under the presents. (Not that I find that sort of thing attractive, but I suspect Santa's kinda sick. If a Yukon lumberjack lasts about five days before dressing up in a deer carcass and proclaiming to his fellow lumberjacks that it's rutting season, I figure Santa's really far gone. Something in the magnetic pole makes ya crazy.) And I started to eat, and they were so good....
...And three cookies in, my stomach slammed on the brakes. "You really didn't want to eat this, did you?" Well, yes, I did. "But I don't want to, and I'm running this ship. Go make me some veggies and cottage cheese." Dammit.
So this is what I have left over:
(2) Packages of Chips Ahoy - one peanut butter chocolate chip, one soft-baked
Mint Milanos
Some chocolate toffee cookie thing
Some chocolate raspberry cookie thing
(2) Pints of Ben & Jerry's - one Black & Tan, one Vermonty Python
Black Forest cake
(2) Long John doughnuts
Ruffles
French Onion Dip
and it all looks so yummy. I figure I can handle about one slice of cake a day, or two bites of doughnut, or three cookies.... argh.
Oh, and all the processed crap in the Chips Ahoy gave me a headache later on.
It's like I have a gastric bypass specific to foods that are yummy. But I didn't get hit by a bus so I still have body-image anxiety, which means at least my body looks out for me, if only by default.
(comment on this)
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