I said I was gonna do it.

And glob-damn if I didn’t try my hardest. But it was a failed venture.

I just… don’t get it. I used to be so good at these. The “lazy, fat, days”. The routine was simple in the old days when my sanguine traffic flow was consistently polluted with pharmaceuticals and I ate processed canned crap. I’d get up, ply the lipped fissure in my face with coffee and toasted bread, and then proceed to enjoy something unforgivable on the moron cube for the morning. And by the morning, I mean majority of the day. Then, around noon, I’d gorge on something (probably bought from Wawa, which I’d travel to in my witness protection uniform of sunnies and a hat- because it’s the closest food locale to patronize if I’m already mid-binge and don’t want people to recognize me and observe the shame streaming from my cereal-killer eyes).

Two threesomes with Ben ‘n Jerry later, I’d then put that spoon to another use, by going full on Karen Carpenter style until a digested food Vesuvius erupted from my fifth chakra. (Explains why I’m so bad at expressing myself now, I suppose.) Then, after crying a little, I’d pump myself up for a reluctant elliptical workout through a pained body I wasn’t taking care of on any level with the help of some soul dampening 90’s metal that, retrospectively, was subconsciously designed and catered to a gag reel of rock stars all talking about trying to kick their spirit annihilating habits (RIP, most of them). But it was to real ass-kicking tunes, though. So, between that and the convenient numbing agents, I managed to stay slender. And eat what I want – even though I stopped wanting much more than sludge after my esophageal layers started to look like the regrettable side of Harvey Dent’s face. After all that, I was too tired to do anything of worth.

Like call my mom to chat.

Take my dog for a nice long walk.

Shower even. (Yes, after a workout.)

Yes. It was so easy back then in my “I don’t plan to live in this body for long – I’m just leasing it” days. Now that I’ve detox’d my flesh marionette and started a clean eating routine, I’m 100% shit at torpor and sofa surfing. God help me, I tried today. I mean, I got the fat-girl part right: I gorged on fruit for breakfast. Then I had another 400 calories worth of vegan noodles, vegetables, all basted nicely in a bath of sodium. I even sat on my ass laughturbating at Amy Schumer episodes back to back, followed by a Russell Brand podcast until my butt cutlets ached. And you know what? It was brilliant – while it lasted. But then, after a couple hours, that one feeling began to drizzle over my consciousness in perfect unison with the now falling rain outside. That feeling that I was – at most – half a minute away from fully transmogrifying into that live-fish eating gargoyle who antagonizes the hobbits and speaks like the demon Legion.

So, I guzzled some water (because: salt), did a few stretches…

…and then proceeded to perform a brutal reverse gang bang on every piece of equipment within a five mile radius:

Elliptical: 15 minutes; 100 calories

Treadmill: 25 minutes; 230 calories

Bike: 10 minutes; 70 calories

Trail: 10 minutes; extra-credit-y calories

Laptop: Still going. And it must be burning a lot, because I’m hungry all over again.

It’s an interesting thing – what happens when you start listening to the meat uniform you live in.

Do it enough and you’ll fall in love with that lifestyle enough that you refuse to abuse yourself anymore.

Unless, ya know, that’s part of your 50 Shades of Roleplay sex-life thing.