Tomorrow is of course weigh-in day within my tiny Disappearing universe. As per usual, despite obsessive weighing, I have no particular idea what the morning will bring - it seems to rather depend on how much evaporates out of me overnight. Perversely, again given my obsessive weighing, I don't particulary care what the result says. I'm probably not any worse this week than I was last, and ultimately that'll do for me. If there's progress, so much the groovier.
Tomorrow is also the funeral of a friend-in-law of mine. It's almost inconceivable to me that I don't know the guy who died, as almost everyone I know seems to know him, but I don't. Tragic story though - young lad (which is to say, younger than me), reasonably new dad, stone dead of an asthma attack. I've told my pal Sian, who's coming for the funeral, that if she happens to survive me, I'd quite like 'Carpe the fuck out of this diem' on any tombstone I happen to have. (Shrugs - I wanted to be fed to the komodo dragons at London Zoo, but people tell me that's 'weird,' mutter mutter whinge whinge...)
I also have the spectacular irrelevance of a dietetic appointment tomorrow afternoon. This was made for me when I was 19st 3lbs. All the likelihood would seem to be that I'll be at least a stone lighter than that when I see the dieticians tomorrow.
Forgive me, I rather laugh when I get referred to dieticians - it seems to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of the issue of obesity. Let me just point something out to any dieticians who happen to stumble across this entry - your entire careers are based on a fundamentally flawed premise. Thanks for calling.
It's the same flawed logic as the big fuck-off skull-and-crossbones warnings on cigarette packets. To quote comedian Denis Leary, 'it's like they think smokers around the world are gonna grab the box and go "Holy SHIT! These things are bad for you! Shit I thought they were good for you, I thought they had Vitamin C in 'em and stuff!"'
It's not that we don't know all the mathematics of the situation - at least as much as you let us, with your new studies every time we turn around (New study finds eating cheese makes you thin! New study says eat chocolate for a slimmer waistline! New study says oops, sorry, we fucked up on that whole chocolate thing!). We do, we know. Things that taste nice put weight on us, things that taste like gymsocks or water don't. Hell, there's probably a study waiting to be published that proves that 'taste' itself was an evolutionary step to drive us towards the foods that would put some meat on our bones, cos fuck is it chilly around these parts.
We know. We get it. What we really need - and it feels weird to say this - is a psychiatric appointment. We need help to reprogramme whatever fucked-up messages we took from whoever or whatever in our lives that meant not only did taste=weight gain, but taste=do not stop. That's what we need. But instead, tomorrow, I'm going to be patronised by some fucker on behalf of the UK Carrot Board or somesuch, and much as I'll happily rant to you about it, I'll sit there, and I'll nod and go "Aha," and "Really? Cool..." just to get my oversized ass back out through the door.
Bottom line, when people younger than me are dropping dead of goddamned asthma, it's enough of an excuse to make you think 'Carpe Cakem.' But no, that's not going to happen either, I'm just saying.
And on that cheery note, I'm saying no more - time to have a sliver of evening with d before walking at 7.30 tomorrow.
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