I gained five FLIPPIN' pounds according to my
WHO'S TO BLAME!?!
Me.
Turns out when you let the exercise slide, stop tracking your intake, and generally eat like an A-hole; you gain weight. Rather than get depressed, eat too much because I'm depressed, gain weight because I'm eating too much, (rinse: repeat) I vowed to put out a contract on that five pounds. Scratch that. I'm taking out their friend too. The hit man is gunning for SIX pounds. Trust me you don't want to get in his way.
I've walked an hour each day since "The Weigh-In That Dare Not Show Its Face." I've been tracking my intake like a palace scribe with his life on the line. (I assume a scribe in such a predicament would do his job really, really well so as not to upset his masters.) I've been weighing myself daily and trending the results, but that's just because I'm a nerd and like to apply trending formulas to my data. (Yay, charts!)
I'd better buy a half-dozen roses to lay on each of these pounds' gaves. They'll be taking a dirt nap soon enough.
2 comments:
Is than an iron clad contract, no Mob Power, no Family Influence?
Go Mr. Capone! I feel your pain; I haven't charted for Friday or Saturday, and even if I get disciplined the rest of this week, I fear the scale on Thursday evening.
That said, cap those fool pounds and refuse to help with the funeral. Those five bastards deserve a dirt nap.
*waves pom poms*
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