Here I am, sitting at my desk, just starting the day, and I’m bored. And I’m in a bad mood. I have no clue why, either. I’m a little tired, but got the same amount of sleep as I usually do. I’m a little sore, but that usually makes me feel good and energized. I’ve got a little headache, but I didn’t even have any brewskies last night.
I don’t want to do anything; I would be perfectly content to crawl underneath my desk, curl up in a little ball, and sleep the day away.
A few moments ago, I thought: I really want to eat those delicious looking Butterfinger Chocolate Eggs that are sitting on my desk in my pretty little KSU candy dish. They’re calling my name. Actually, they’re more like shouting my name. Damn, I’m hearing ‘food voices’ again. Watch out, the crazy-wagon just fish-tailed into the parking lot, screeching to a stop in front of my door. Then I thought, maybe I’ll eat out for lunch instead of drinking my Herbalife. Mmmm, a Super-Sonic Bacon Cheeseburger sounds freaking phenomenal. With cheese topped tator-tots. And a Butterfinger Blast Shake.
(I think a new obsession for Butterfingers is starting. Shit.)
This is what an emotional eater goes through. I know all that crap food doesn’t solve any of my emotional problems, but instead it semi-instantly transforms into jiggle that gets permanently attached to my bubble-ass. Then I have to spend the next week, getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to work extra hard, sweating my skin off, to some supped-up muscle head that talks gibberish half the time, all in order to get back to my ‘magic’ number that I weighed pre-Super-Sonic Cheeseburger. So even though I know what the outcome is, why do I want to put myself through that? Or why would I even THINK about putting myself through that?
Well, I haven’t succumbed to my depression-induced eating craze….yet. Instead of eating all that fatty crap, I’m sitting here, typing away, and describing my agony, hoping that these cravings from Hell return to the fiery pit they came from.
I should be in a Mary Poppin’s teaspoon-full-of-sugar good mood. I exercised twice yesterday. Yep, you read correctly. This girl, that was born to absolutely despise any traditional exercising activity, rocked it to KenpoX in the early morning hours AND did Biceps and Shoulders PLUS Ab RipperX after she cooked her husband a deliciously healthy dinner. So, I’m declaring myself officially ‘The Shit’. After all that, I should be flying high on cloud 9, but instead I’m slowing trudging through in my poopy mood.
Poopy moods blow.
Tomorrow is Friday. If I can hold on for another 30 hours, I think I’ll survive. Because you know what happens on Fridays??? Mr. Bud Light and I reconnect our wonderful friendship in a blissful place I like to call ‘My Back Deck’. Nothing puts me in a better mood that a lawn chair, a frosty malt beverage, and no real-world worries for 2.5 days.
Weekends do not blow. Weekends are my savior.