Jesus take my fork

Currently there are three tubes of Pringles and four bags of Crispers sitting in my pantry because they were on sale and I am a weak and pathetic human being.

Shockingly, there are no post-Valentine's Day chocolates... only because I ate them all already.

Nothing seems to be working, so I wrote a song.

Okay, so I had a little help from Carrie Underwood, bless her little Christian heart. And although I'm a devout atheist, maybe I, like the hero of this ballad, should be turning to prayer in these very dark times.

I hope you guys like it.


Jesus Take My Fork
She was nibbling last Friday on a chocolate cake
On a snow white Christmas Eve
Never noticing all the bites that she would take
Or the icing on her sleeve

Twenty pounds too high, but she was running low
On breath and blood sugar
It'd been a ravenous year

She had cake on her mind and her mind on her cake
She was eating way too fast
Before she knew it she was staring
In the mirror at a great big bulging ass

She saw both her chins start to quiver
Oh the snow outside it made her shiver
She was so scared
She threw her fork up in the air

Jesus, take my fork
Take it from my hands
Cause I can't do this on my own

I'm letting go
Like the buttons on my shirt
Please save me from this road I'm on
Jesus, take my fork

Well her fork you know, it landed on the floor 
She grumbled and she cussed
Her scale, it cried and it pleaded "no more"
Under its layer of filth and dust

And for the first time in a long time
She bowed her head to pray
She said I'm sorry for the way
I've been eating my life

I know I've got to change
So from now on tonight

Jesus, take my fork
Take it from my hands
Cause I can't do this on my own
I'm letting go

Like the buttons on my shirt

Please save me from this road I'm on
Jesus, take my fork

Oh Jesus, take my fork
Oh, I'm letting go

So give me one more chance
Save me from this road I'm on
From this road I'm on
(This delicious road)
Jesus, take my fork
Oh, take it, take it from me
Oh, why, ooh

On second thought, the Flying Spaghetti Monster sounds like a much more delicious saviour.

Sorry, Jesus.

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?