I worked for eight hours, speaking two or three dull sentences to one or two dull people, and punching numbers off a thousand or so pieces of paper and into the database, which wasn't as exciting as it doesn't sound. The boss walked by — the lady who told me yesterday to be more outgoing and friendly and un-me — and I smiled at her and nodded and said "Fuck you" under my breath. The work line rang twice, and both times I let someone else answer.
♦ ♦ ♦
From work, I checked my messages, and Margaret had called from Washington. Her calls used to make me smile but now make me wary. Is she going to be nuts or weird or angry when I call back, or is she going to be Maggie? Would she even be Maggie if she wasn't nuts or weird or angry?
I stopped at the phone booth in front of my hotel and returned her call. It was a short conversation because I wanted to save some quarters for doing laundry. She wasn't unpleasant. I wasn't unpleasant. She's not much interested in living in San Francisco, and I'm still absolutely not living in Hayward. She says she might move to Hayward without me, and live with her sister and daughter. She says, instead of living together, maybe we could date like normal people.
We're not normal people, obviously, but maybe we could make it work. And that's where we left it, when the automated operator told me to deposit more quarters than I wanted to deposit.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sometimes I look at my nakedness and marvel, certainly not at the classical beauty of the human form, but that this body is even functional and not completely collapsed under so many grotesque mounds of fat. The last time I saw Dr Doogie Howser, they stood me on their heavy-duty scale and said I weighed 323 pounds. That's as much as two skinny but healthy men, wrapped into one man's flabby flesh.
After the sex disaster, when Maggie and I couldn't do what we wanted to do because my belly was in the way, I decided that I needed to lose some weight. But so far, deciding is all I've done. I haven't changed my extraordinarily awful eating habits. I'm still fat, still eating too much and then having seconds and thirds.
I don't eat for hunger or sustenance, but for entertainment and comfort. A full belly makes me happy, and a fuller belly makes me happier, and whenever I'm blue I'll devour another couple of peanut butter sandwiches. I'm often blue, and I eat lots of peanut butter sandwiches.
I've tried low-calorie diets, enough times to know that diets won't work for me. I lack the willpower. Some ancient Greek dude said, "Know thyself," and I know myself — I'm simply not going to eat tiny meals of undressed salad and a mayo-less watercress sandwich.
But, after thinking it over for a month and a half, I'm guess I'm ready to try eating more sensibly. For me that means, two McD double-cheeseburgers at lunch, instead of four. Bananas for snacks and dessert, instead of Snickers bars. And the experts say to eat slower, so you don't eat so much. The 'experts', of course, are all skinny bastards who've never been fat, but — I'll try.
Starting tomorrow.
I pledge not to bore you with constant updates on my success or, more likely, failure. There will be no menu plans here, no calorie counts, and I can't weigh myself — my scale only goes up to 300 pounds. This is not going to become a weight-loss zine, because nothing could be more boring than the diary of a fat slob trying to be less fat.
From Pathetic Life #2
Friday, July 22, 1994
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
No comments:
Post a Comment
🚨🚨 BY THE WAY... 🚨🚨
The site's software sometimes swallows comments. If it eats yours, send an email and I'll get it posted.