Try Try Again

So I smoked like a madman over the weekend. "Oh, I'm going to miss you, my little friends," I'd say to the ciggy each time I torched up.

Sunday night-- failsafe.

I lit up the last ciggy. "Goodbye! Goodbye!" I said to the ciggy.

I finished it, went inside, showered, flossed and brushed. Soon after falling into bed, I slept deeply, with the clean conscience of a pollyanna do-gooder.

But as Grandma Louise used to say, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

The alarm went off Monday morning, and the fun began!

For two days, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. My head was a balloon floating above me connected on a fraying string. My arms and hands tingled. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't speak in complete sentences. I was fatigued.

Most of all, I was hungry.

Massive quantities of food disappeared into my yawning maw. On Tuesday for lunch I had a footlong Subway sandwich and A POUND OF CHEEZ-ITS. On a dinner date that night, I polished off a loaf of bread with olive oil, along with a large dish of rigatoni and sauce and a side of grilled chicken. Bags of salted and roasted sunflower seeds were inhaled. Bavarian Creme donuts disappeared down my throat. Bags of nectarines and pints of blueberries were consumed. An entire bag of greens was liberally doused with spices and Paul Newman Italian dressing and sucked into my gut. And on, and on, and on. I began to realize that there wasn't enough food in the world to satisfy me.

In short, I was a slack-jawed, empty-eyed, shivering, starving zombie.

I thought, "This is not working. At. All."

Last night I went off the wagon and am again equipped with my little deadly friends. "We knew you'd come around," they whisper to me from my purse.

I answer, "Ohhhh, the fight has just begun, bitches!"