Do you hate my life?

Because I hate my life.

I got what I deserved

Because today is my gym off-day, I gleefully consented to a post-work nap.

What I'd like to believe this looked like:

What I'm sure it really looked like:

By the time I slithered out of bed, it was too late to cook a decent meal, so I made a crucial error: I resorted to McDonald's drive thru - the ultimate in abject slobbery.

That was my first mistake. Actually, my first mistake was submitting to McDonald's. And yes, for those of you who are wondering, Ronald McDonald himself literally shoved his repugnant food down my throat.

I don't know why I expected any less, but upon returning to the homestead, I discovered that the incompetent morons at this fine establishment get my order completely wrong. Regardless, in my final act of contemptible self hatred, I consumed the entire defective meal, which likely had the nutritional equivalent of a cardboard box soaked in radioactive nuclear waste.

This night isn't salvageable. I know this now.  But tomorrow is a new day, a day where I will refrain from a siesta, sweat tonight's grade F meat out of my system, and eat a real, honest-to-fucking-god meal. For I must look forward, not backward; upward, not forward; and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom.

I'm a Blobfish

Oh hai.

Remember me?

No?

Fair enough. I'm an internet (and real life) nobody who naively thought that creating a blog would actually be a successful motivator in eating right and getting in shape.

I was gone for a minute, but now I'm back and giving it the old college try for approximately the 478th time. Besides, I want to be one of those people who is already givin'er at the gym before January 1st so I don't look like one of those new years resolution fools.

For what it's worth, for the entire month of November, I was a workout machine. I was averaging three to four days at the gym, eating right, and getting some serious results.

Then I went on a little trip to Chicago, ate my weight in deep dish pizza, and now I stand before you a broken and disgusting mass of sarcasm and high cholesterol. Artist's rendition below:

Can you believe this is an actual thing that exists?

I digress.

It's a week before the most miserable time of the year, and instead of being all Sally Homemaker heading to the kitchen to do some holiday baking, and you know, being all cheerful and shit, I'm going to work the hell out of my body. Like seriously make it wish it was never born.

Take that, God!

Hold the Intervention

But keep it close by, just in case - for the theme of summer 2011 has been that of an epic battle of wills between Princess Athleticor VS. Queen Fatty of Utter-Piece-of-Shitdom.

  VS 

The queen is winning, but I'm hoping Thunder Thighs up there on the left still has some fight left in her.

I'm exceptionally lazy in every imaginable aspect of my meager existence - and this includes this dreadful blogging exercise - so I'm not going to recount my mundane life over the past month for fear of driving all three of my readers to suicide. Reader's digest version: I will not have not quit drinking (by any means), but I've reunied with the gym and today, oh today, I bladed a delectable 10 kilometers! (That's just over six miles for my one American reader).

By no means is any of this worthy of even the slightest bit of praise. But at the very moment I am writing this, I could be tearing into a frozen pizza. Instead, I'm sitting here talking to my computer, waiting for a Greek salad to arrive.

And trying not to think about how miserable and starving-god-damn-hungry I am.

Fuck my life.

Backwards Progression

Today a friend pointed out how amusing it was that I so steadfastly professed to quit binge drinking only to blog about being horrendously hungover (again) the following post.

Blogs don't lie. I am a weak and pathetic human being.

Today was an improvement, albeit a slight one. After eating a chocolate croissant for breakfast (I'm repugnant, I know), I spent half my afternoon being handy in the backyard, and then went to the gym and pumped out a delicious 5K.

Impressed yet? Me either. Get ready for additional hilarity, for I'm now going to tell you how long it took me to run 5K -- only because I hope to improve this humiliating time in the near future.

45 minutes. I'm about 25 minutes out of shape.

This is going to get worse before it gets better.

Canada Day: Bigger than F*cking St. Patty's

Canada celebrated its 144th birthday yesterday, and all I got was this lousy hangover.

But what a party we had in honour of the greatest country in the world (see: not in its honour at all really, we just needed an excuse to get drunk).

Canada Day in the capital city of Ottawa: truly a recipe for disaster. Add beautiful weather, friends and liquor o'plenty to the mix, and you're in trouble. A marathon day of drinking kind of trouble.

Arguably, Canada Day just usurped St. Patrick's Day as the one day of the year Canadians (see: me) get the most fucked up. After all, I've long maintained that these two 'holidays' share many common themes.

Okay, so one common theme: people getting crazy stupid drunk. Intoxicated. Wrecked. Three sheets to the wind. Crunk. Smashed. Pissed. Fucked up. Shit canned. Bombed. Blitzed. Tanked. Tipsy. Buzzed. Blasted. Sloshed. Plowed. Messed-up. Annihilated. Slammed. Trashed. Loaded.

I need to stop with the binge drinking. I'm not a frat boy.

So today I decided to. I downloaded this neat little Blackberry app called My Fitness Pal. Nerdy, yes, but I need all the crutches I can get.

Today I also set goals.Today's goal: surviving this beast of a hangover and maybe changing my shirt. Tomorrow's goal: create a gym and meal plan.

Ongoing goal: stop being a festering pile of shit.

Think I can stick to at least one of these?

Back At It

(The bottle, in case you were confused as to what 'it' was.)

After a lengthy hiatus, I've decided to give the ol' blog another go. As predicted, I got lazy, and quit. Surprised? Who's surprised? Quitting things is my MO.

Since the fall, I have made some changes, albeit small and ultimately inconsequential.

I joined GoodLife. Ugh. I know. I know. I already prefer the Ottawa clubs though, people look normal here. I also acquired a personal trainer thanks to a friend's generosity (see: my friends must also think I'm fat).

I uh, also...

Okay, so two changes. Two. And not surprisingly, nothing has really happened. No results. I don't feel better. I don't look better. In fact, I feel worse.

Why? How about a little anecdote?

Last night (please note that last night was a Wednesday night), I bought a case of beer.

Some chums came over. 

And we drank it all.

Okay, so at least no one was killed. Unless you count millions upon millions of brain cells. But what possesses three adults to drink like a bunch of Germans at Oktoberfest on a week night?

This morning at about 7 a.m. was a hellish nightmare of Biblical proportions. I literally thought I was going to die. Since I've been up, I've ingested more Advil than food. I've been experiencing the phenomenon known as 'the hangover spins'. My cats have been giving me the stink eye, which begs the question: did one of us throw up on them?

Drinking beer (see: pounding pints all the f*cking time) is not condusive to healthy living. Thanks Captain Obvious.

On the real, I have to cut this out. And by 'this', I mean my increasingly alarming binge drinking habit.

BBC's Radio 1 website has a fantastic gadget called the Booze Calculator that really puts things into perspective. Let's assess the damage, shall we? 

Okay, so last night I drank 8 beers (what? shut up. I'm a girl). That equaled:

• 18 units of alcohol.
• This is 128% of the weekly recommended intake for a woman (14 units).
• I ingested approximately 1600 calories, or the food equivalent of
• 2 slices of pizza
• 3 donuts
• 2 pastries 
• 1 burger
• It is going to take 18 hours for the alcohol to leave my system (only 6 more to go at the time of posting!)

So as you can all see, it's fairly obvious what needs to be done here.

Just kidding.

Stay tuned.