Hello, you beautiful strawberry muffin-like human beings!
Here is something I know nothing about: bitcoins.
And here is something I know plenty about: dieting.
I’m officially in the midst of week 3 of this crazy mishegoss, and I’m feeling a little bit more steady and little bit more like a champion.
But last week was R-U-F-F.
Actually the first two weeks were an experience like what I imagine it would be like going to an S&M dominatrix and paying her to beat the hell out of you and then realizing 10 minutes in that you are not a masochist or submissive in any way but also realizing that you’ve forgotten to establish a safe word and also you can’t speak anyways because of the ball gag plus you’ve paid for this so now you’ve just got to endure it because god forbid anyone ever call you a quitter.
Yeah… kind of like that.
Thus far I have endured dinners at Red Lobster (I ate plain cod and broccoli while everyone else lobster-fested) and Old Chicago (I sullenly ate nothing), a cocktail party during which I could consume neither cocktails nor the accompanying appetizers, a pub crawl during which I could not consume beer or the accompanying greasy appetizers and sandwiches (and also had a fit of lightheadedness), and made a birthday cake that I also did not get to partake of. IT HAS BEEN DEE-FUCKING-LIGHTFUL.
At this point I’m pretty sure I’ve started several hundred pregnancy rumors or people think I have some sort of eating disorder.
But keep in mind, that I have chosen all of this. This is all my doing. I have no one to blame but myself.
And all of this is to build up to this: I HAVE THE GREATEST BOYFRIEND ON THE FACE OF PLANET EARTH AND MARS AND VENUS AND PROBABLY URANUS TOO. His face should be emblazoned on a million trillion gold medallions for all eternity.
Last weekend when I was just completely downtrodden and hungry and miserable, he spent the entire weekend making me things. He bought this great cookbook that I can’t recommend enough called Nom Nom Paleo (and the corresponding food blog too!) and performed all sorts of kitchen wizardry to stock me up with Devils on Horseback (made with prunes, prosciutto and faux ricotta), prosciutto crisps (deloish), the craziest most delicious kalua pork you will ever eat, cauliflower “rice”, and strawberry banana ice cream.
I’m feeling much more even-keeled now and, dare I say, like some kind of 5th level diamond star paleo vision master from the darkest side of the moons of Saturn. Or like this tiger:
|Focus. Determination. Meat.|
Important side note: The tigers at our local zoo apparently love the smell of Lady Stetson so the zookeepers periodically douse areas of their enclosure with it for the tigers’ entertainment.
Life Tip: Never douse yourself in Lady Stetson for any reason, but especially for tiger reasons.
Anyways... I'm feeling pretty confident now about my ability to finish up this horseshit strong, but I also already have my elaborate post-Whole 30 celebration meal planned which is a tedious progressive 4 course meal across the sprawling metropolis of Wichita, Kansas with a miniature golf interlude.
It's going to be the Super Bowl of cheat meals.
Cheese you later, Cool Kids!