The Gleaming Peek

I'm writing this in the middle of the day, before schlepping my ass up to see the dietician who, as pal of mine and former dietician Christine sagely pointed out, probably in fact won't wave carrots at me at all, but will most likely talk to me about all the stuff I'm actually doing and yadda yadda yadda...
The irony being, I hate talking about all this stuff. I know, laugh, go ahead - "Well, if you hate talking about it so much, what the hell's the point of the blog, dude?" Ultimately, as I've said before, the point of the blog is to have people to disap-goddammned-point - it's the equivalent of a god in a godless universe, I need to have at least the illusion of you guys (or actually, mostly gals) out there watching me, judging me, to keep me in line so I don't do just what the hell I want and end up dead in an enormous puddle of chocolate frosting. See - you may not know this, but I think of each and every one of you as gods. Something for the resume, there.

Let's get to the boring, intensely male, dick-measuring business of the weekly weigh-in. Here we are, folks, the incremental, rigid, linear metric of success or abject failure...

18st 1.
One pound again. OK, so I am the optimistic inchworm, pulling myself along on an imperceptibly reducing belly towards a metric of success, woohoo!
Thing is, that was first thing this morning. Hung around, not having time for breakfast, peed, and saw my first gleaming peek beyond the Disappearing Rubicon - At some point before I first put food in my body today, I exerted a pressure on the Earth equivalent to 17st 13.75, goddammit. Then I had brunch, and the gleaming peek no doubt vanished under the additional stress of toast and tomato soup. So there we are, that's that. I'm not of course claiming 17st 13.75 as my weigh-in today, because that would diminish the ungovernably awful sense of swaggering pride with which I intend to berate everyone I know when I get that result first thing in the morning in - at this rate - another two weeks. Oh yes...I can wait...
Am I happy with 18st 1? Welllll, yes and no. On the one hand, I'm a guy, so basically I want to drive everywhere like an asshole drunk on amphetamine and speed (see what I did there?), and every week I lose just a pound is sort of like being stuck in a 20 mile an hour zone with two kids and a crate of eggs loose on the back seat. But on the other hand, the experience of Disappearing this time is not in any meaningful sense of the word hard. That's because I'm not being as rigid or as disciplined, and so of course, the results are going to be slower to come. Which is better? Meh, I don't know. I think I'm probably easier to live with this time round than I was the first time, but that's not entirely a judgment I'm qualified to make.

Anyhow - time to disappear in the purely geographical sense, as well as the body mass index sense. Let's see what the dietician says, shall we?