I dip potato chips in sour cream. Fuck french onion dip with its hoity toity powdered soup mix. I skip the rationalization and go straight for the unadulterated sour cream. And Ruffles, the greasier and more transparent the better. No Wavy Lays for me.
It is 12:12AM and I hate my diet. I want to dip the chips. I want to scoop out so much sour cream that I can't even taste the chip. And, I want to eat battered fish fillets I have in the freezer. And tater tots. And peanut butter sandwiches. I want to eat cereal without measuring it first. I want to pour soy sauce directly on my rice rather than into a tablespoon first. I want to eat Dolly Madison snack cakes. Not the neat and tidy Hostess things, the Dolly Madison Snoopy ones where the cream bursts out through the side when you bite down. I want to eat french fries and onion rings and greasy triple cheeseburgers that drip. I want to never think of checking a calorie count online ever again!
I will go to sleep now. And in two days, on Sunday, I will celebrate my diet cheat day with an indulgence not seen since pagan sacrificial rituals. I will drip blood red tomato sauce upon the deep-fried altar of gluttony.
And then I will pass out from happiness and wake up to a life of diet once again. I envy people who can afford liposuction. I would rather recover from surgical incisions than tune out that Hershey bar hidden in the fridge door behind the Crisco. Oh yes, I know where it is. It calls to me. It is very persuasive.
By the way, I have developed a shooting tearing pain in my right hamstring. I couldn't go a mile on the Gazelle today because of it. I'm scared. If I can't exercise, I will be like this guy, but without the chromosomal excuse.
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