Occasionally I binge.
I am very careful about what I will binge on. Alcohol will simply not do. My taste for alcohol returns even stronger one week after a full day of drinking. The same with a meal. I will get hungry again. Thats the way a body should work.
But sugar? I deny myself sweets on a daily basis. I crave sweets. I see them sitting so brightly, lined up in vending machines like a row of dominoes, begging to be tipped over, cakes and pies alluring you with fluorescent-accented textures and I know that when I eat one I will be disappointed. The taste of a slice of mascarpone-laden tiramisu or a coffee-soaked dippin doughnut simply holds no allure for me. But I still react to the sight of either of these like Pavlovs bitch. He rings the bell, I come running, all swinging drool and eagerness to please.
So I give in. Hit up the coffeeshops and get the most silken, alluring slice they have. Drop by the bakeries and grab a handful of petit fours. Indulge in the most verboten aisles of the supermarket. Swing for a six-digit calorie count. After all, if you want to succeed in life, then you must set unreachable goals and then strive to reach them.
The next morning will be measured out in tablespoons of Pepto-Bismol.
And then I dont eat anything sugary for the next five months. Im done with the saccharine. Ive eaten all I care to.
I sometimes think that there has to be a better way than this. Something that is much more relaxed and effortless than a days cramming and two seasons worth of iron restraint. But the part of me that enjoys a good hard run in the cold winter rain, the part of me that enjoys working eighteen hour days with my features sagging like a voodoo doll, that part of me enjoys the ache and the limits and the self-control and god knows what else. Its disturbing but then again so is anything that hides out of sight.
Bingeing helps, occasionally.
Every time I enter a comment somewhere above the textbox there is a line that says
You are : discofever
and when I see that I like to get my Stuart Smiley on and say that aloud to myself and totally affirmate the fuck out of myself. Ken. I am Ken. I am he? I am! No, really, I am! It's cool as wet fuck!
It gets plain silly around here sometimes.
I am very careful about what I will binge on. Alcohol will simply not do. My taste for alcohol returns even stronger one week after a full day of drinking. The same with a meal. I will get hungry again. Thats the way a body should work.
But sugar? I deny myself sweets on a daily basis. I crave sweets. I see them sitting so brightly, lined up in vending machines like a row of dominoes, begging to be tipped over, cakes and pies alluring you with fluorescent-accented textures and I know that when I eat one I will be disappointed. The taste of a slice of mascarpone-laden tiramisu or a coffee-soaked dippin doughnut simply holds no allure for me. But I still react to the sight of either of these like Pavlovs bitch. He rings the bell, I come running, all swinging drool and eagerness to please.
So I give in. Hit up the coffeeshops and get the most silken, alluring slice they have. Drop by the bakeries and grab a handful of petit fours. Indulge in the most verboten aisles of the supermarket. Swing for a six-digit calorie count. After all, if you want to succeed in life, then you must set unreachable goals and then strive to reach them.
The next morning will be measured out in tablespoons of Pepto-Bismol.
And then I dont eat anything sugary for the next five months. Im done with the saccharine. Ive eaten all I care to.
I sometimes think that there has to be a better way than this. Something that is much more relaxed and effortless than a days cramming and two seasons worth of iron restraint. But the part of me that enjoys a good hard run in the cold winter rain, the part of me that enjoys working eighteen hour days with my features sagging like a voodoo doll, that part of me enjoys the ache and the limits and the self-control and god knows what else. Its disturbing but then again so is anything that hides out of sight.
Bingeing helps, occasionally.
Every time I enter a comment somewhere above the textbox there is a line that says
You are : discofever
and when I see that I like to get my Stuart Smiley on and say that aloud to myself and totally affirmate the fuck out of myself. Ken. I am Ken. I am he? I am! No, really, I am! It's cool as wet fuck!
It gets plain silly around here sometimes.