i really don’t care how many calories are in a margarita.

Especially when I have…several…of them in one evening.  But that was yesterday. This morning I got on a scale and in spite of the influx of tequila, I’ve dropped two pounds. That’s since I got the magic number five days ago.

La dee freakin’ da. Two pounds. Less than a kilo. But thinking about it, I’ve seen kilos of both weed and cocaine (on TV of course, it’s not like I’m wealthy), and they’d be pretty hard to stash in your pants without a noticeable bulge. As would a two-pound box of See’s candy. Or eight sticks of butter.

Mmmmm, butter.

So I’ll just say I’ve lost nearly a kilo of weed and call it good. It is good. And what’s better is that I haven’t done it by getting all draconian on my ass, which is a recipe for disaster with me. As soon as I try to actually deprive myself of something, that whole “you ain’t the boss of me” thang kicks in and my mouth always wins those battles. Always. “Self-destruction before subjugation” seems to be my subconscious battle cry even when it’s good for me. Especially when it’s good for me. Kinda romantic really, but also desperately stupid. Like a Mel Gibson movie once you realize that the dude truly is mentally ill.

So two pounds. If I can keep up this pace I hit the target in 42-and-a-half weeks. Which means early September of next year.

Crap, that’s a long time.

Well, once more into the breach, and all that. Perhaps a poem will inspire me.

A big lady from the Midwest
Had at long last been forced to confess
That her heart would beat better
And death not soon get her
If the size of her ass were addressed.



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