Saturday, April 23, 2005
The final straw was when I asked Ben if he thought I'd gained any weight. He without hesitation said yes. Then I said, "Do I look chubby?" He considered, then said, "Well, you're on the borderline of chubby. Like, I wouldn't say you were chubby but you're getting close."
That does it. Things are going to change.
So as of this morning I have had two glasses of water. And handful of raisins. And half a whole wheat bagel with almond butter and grape preserves. I am on a mission. This mission includes avoiding excess consumption of soda (I am already about to cry on that one) carbs (so I have to throw out all my beloved snack crackers) and of course, candy. And I have, have, have to cut down on the drinking.
My drinking goes in cycles. I'll be a drunk assed hellion for 6 or 7 months- meaning I'm out at least 2 times a week if not more, hammered and rowdy- and then, I switch back into "I haven't been drunk in months" minsdet. I am in the former mode as of January, but sense that I may go back to being drunk every couple of weeks (as opposed to every other night) soon.
I did a quick, depressing equasion: How many times have I been drunk this past week?
April 17th: Went out after my show, did not intend to have more than one drink but people kept buying them for me. So why say no to that? That would be rude. Sara and I dig in purses for change. She is the brave one, so she walks up to the bar with only a few paper bills in hand, the rest being coin, and gets drinks (I am not only a chubby drunk, I am a coward to boot). Only have 4 beers total (or was it five?), but this was on an empty stomach, so I am a bit tiddly. Giulia, Sara and I are harrssed by an obese man with a Montell Jordan jukebox fetish, who I begin to refer to as my "dad". His pockets are, comically and tragically, turned inside out of his ill-fitting pants. My friend/old roommate Deb is visiting from San Francisco, so she and I then go home and eat at the Carrol Gardens Diner, where it seems wise to have a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a Coke at 1 am on a Sunday.
April 18th: Went to see Liam's show. Met Anne at the Hat prior and had a large one of their gasoline-powerful margaritas along with a handful of chips. Smart plan. Went to the show, spilt a bottle of wine with Anne. Went to the Magician, had 2 glasses of wine and about 3 peanuts. Went somewhere else in the LES (can't remember) had a beer? I think? Went home, laid in bed and thought, how the fuck did I drink that much? Had the spins.
April 19th: Wrote sketches with Sara. Had two beers. Went to see Midnight Pajama Jam taping. Did not drink at the show- but did eat a guacamole smothered fried catfish taco at, oh, 1 am? Nice.
April 20th: DID NOT DRINK. EXCEPT FOR A HALF A GLASS OF RED WINE. THAT SO DOES NOT COUNT. Where's my token, dammit? Porter came over, I made outrageously fattening french fries w/ a butter/garlic/parsley sauce and red-pepper turkey burgers. Then we went on a walk and got ice cream. Something tells me that in order to make up for those fries, I would have needed to take a walk back and forth over the Brooklyn Bridge a few times. Say, 23.
April 21st: Anne and I drink some 40s, go to Quinton's birthday, where I have 2 beers, then go downtown, stop in at Pommes Frites and eat some amazing fries drenched in blue cheese sauce, then on to Telephone Bar, where we have 2 beers, then go to Welcome to the Johnson's, where we are picked up on poorly by NYU freshman as we drink a PBR, then to Motor City, where we have another beer, then to the Hat. I order something off the menu and by the time it comes, I forget what I ordered. Which is sad because it's so awesome I want to order it again. It's in a fried tortilla shell smothered in- yes of course- guacamole, sour cream, and cheese. Massive. It was so lovely, so fatteningly lovely. I can only eat half of it, so they make me a little doggy-bag and Anne and I stomp out the door directly into cabs. Again, it's 1 am and I am drunk and have eaten my staple of cheese, fried things and booze. Nummers.
April 22nd: I go out to meet some co-workers of mine, and some aquaintances who were visiting from London. We were meant to have Japanese bubble tea, but instead, we end up having cocktails. After my fourth drink at, oh, I guess it was about 7 pm, we all head to Max in Alphabet City and have an AMAZING Italian meal, offset by two bottles of red wine for the 7 of us. Now, I was only a bit buzzed, and this is because I made a point of eating everything in front of me that wasn't bolted down. It was frightful. I had to eat some of everyone's rigatoni, osso bucco, and of course my own lasagna. It was heavenly piggery. I was sick to my stomach by meal's end because I overate horribly. I got home at 10ish, stuffed and in pain, and that's when I decided things were verging on retarded. So, I crawled into bed with Confederacy of Dunces, nursed my awful stomach ache and made promises to myself that I was going to fucking BEHAVE.
After documenting this and reading it, I had to laugh at myself due to my repulsive behavior. It is time to exercize the muscle I feel is my weakest- the self-control muscle. In me, I suppose this muscle might resemble the stunted, puny arms of the Tyrannasaurus Rex, present yet impotent, something to be mocked rather than feared.
This is the muscle that seems to be largely absent when I decide it's totally OK to have two Magnolia Bakery buttercream-frosted cupcakes/another Sapphire & tonic because he's buying/make out with you.
Being impulsive is something I neurologically cannot help- and while I do think it makes me unqiue, it also gets me into heaps of trouble. I find myself in situations doing absolutely ridiculous things, things I don't even want to do. I don't have that "off" button that practical people have. I don't grasp consequences of actions until it's quite late. And again, while I think that that lends me a certain charm I am proud of, it also means that sometimes, I am an asshole.
So that's how that goes.