I swear I am eating for two. My caloric intake the last week and a half has been outrageous. I need to take it easy for a month or two or I'll lose my girlish figure.
It's the fault of my co-workers. They are all women and I am not joking when I say that we talk about weight at least ten times in one eight-hour day. It drives me crazy and is, I think, giving me some kind of complex that makes me want to enjoy good, tasty food when I go home. Just watching these girls scarf down celery and Atkins bars makes me want to retch... and go to the Scheduling Department for a Krispy Kreme donut (the GM buys them once a week at minimum.)
I had two kiwifruit when I got home: they were ripe and if you don't eat them when they ripen they will rot in, like, an hour, I swear. Then I made myself a salad.
And then I ate some more macaroni and cheese.
And had a small brownie.
And another small brownie.
And thank you Out magazine for once. Out, I tell you, is ahead of the curve on this one. They have a whole four-page article on denim, wearing it, when to buy it, and the enormous problem of finding jeans that hug the ass but don't come all the way up to the middle of my back. The article also includes (I do not exaggerate) at least six full-page color photographs of men wearing nothing but jeans.
Happy Fag Day... er Flag Day.
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