346

346. Three hundred and fucking forty six. The number stares back at me from my digital weight watchers scale. It is slightly grinning at me. My body is happy here. 346 is where it can eat french fries and pizza into the ever so common "food coma". The " food coma" is where I am at my happiest. It is not because I have just eaten whatever I wanted in vast quantities. It is not because I am comfortably sleepy, needing to rest so my body can do nothing on focus on digesting the recent feast. It is because at that point it is physically impossible for me to eat anything else. That is what I crave more than any salty, fried, sugar covered carbohydrate. I crave to crave nothing. I want to never again cry as I stuff my face envisioning what the greasy delicacy is doing to my body. I never again want to attempt to force myself to throw up, not from a case of bulimia, but because I have convinced myself it is the only way someone like me could lose the weight, only to fail miserably and in defeated journal the binged calories I assumed would end in the toilet. How do I start? I am starting with chicken. I shall eat dinner in about half an hour. Chicken, brown rice, and veggies. I am exhausted from working all weekend but maybe I can convince myself to go to the gym afterwards, or at least walk the dog. It starts here and it starts with nothing more than a new blog and some chicken.