fatty. no good for you.


“I’ve been too honest with myself…

I should have lied like everybody else." - Manic Street Preachers, "Faster"

This has been one of my favorite lyrics of all time.

These last several months have affected me considerably, though.  I was heavily inspired by my good friend to create this blog based on what I saw her writing about and what the response to her was.  She's brutally honest, if not graphic, about who she is, what she endures, and what makes her awesome.

Most everything that's wrong in my life can be attributed to issues about honesty.  One of the many reasons I started this blog was for me to take a look at myself, what I wanted out of life, and the path to get there.  Did I want to be in another committed relationship, or did I want the freedom to fuck everything life would allow for?  Did I want to be healthy, or was I aiming for unrealistic goals of recreating my youth via aggressive weight loss?  Did I even know what I wanted, or was everything just a function of what feels good at a given moment?

I still don't wholly know the answers to this.

What I do know is that I've moved very, very aggressively in a new relationship.  The amazing woman I spoke of 3 weeks ago is my girlfriend, and I've been staying with her most nights - including every night since Monday.  I have a situation in which my ex-wife lives here and hates how loud we fuck.  My girlfriend's situation is owning a house that is almost uninhabitable due to water damage.  So, naturally, we're both staying at someone's house from her church who is headed to Afghanistan to help with that clusterfuck.

Here's the thing: I'm mostly happy with this.  She's pretty amazing.  I basically consider her "out of my league", but there's enough things she likes about me that I can rationalize this to be alright.  We're still trying to overcome the age gap - which is 8.5 years.  She's used to dating older men; I'm definitely not used to significantly younger women.  Most everything else makes sense, and she is really, really happy with me.  I see it in her eyes, her smile, and I think her ass even perks up when I look at it.  I'm happy with her.  She is aware of any significant shortcoming I have and assures me it's not an issue.

I can admit sometimes I don't know I want something until I see it.  It's like that impulse buy of Reese's peanut butter cups that you just suddenly think "HOLY FUCK THAT SOUNDS FUCKING AMAZING" at its sight.  I knew the moment I saw her that I wanted her to be mine.  After spending time with her, I never wanted her to leave my side.  The next steps are a bit unclear - but I am happy.  What I need to be sure of next is that I'm ready for this happiness now without losing sight of the big goals.

Getting back to the original Manic Street Preachers quote...I'm starting to hate it.  For a very long time, I pushed the boundaries of who I was and what I could do - and not without both significant failures and relevant successes.  I know who I am now, and knowing myself gives me a pretty unique insight into what it takes to improve the parts of my life I'd like to.  I can't do that without honesty.  I've come to understand that being honest about yourself makes it easier to be honest with others.  I can say I'm 270 lbs, but in the same breath, I can say I'm down nearly 40 lbs since the middle of last year.  Both those clauses are true, and whatever someone chooses to take from it is up to them.

That said, the scale at the home I'm staying at has me at 264, but I think it's fucked.  I'll get a real weight when I have time.


“Blame, Deny, Betray, Divide….

...A lie, the truth, which one shall I use?" - The Afghan Whigs, "Blame, Etc."

On October 21, 1996, 6 days before my 17th birthday, I was run over by a truck.  According to the police report, it was 6:51 PM.  I was on my bike, trying to make a left turn to get myself to the motel I was staying at with a friend while we were trying to figure out an apartment situation.  I had 2 CDs with me - The Afghan Whigs, "Black Love" (from which the above quote was taken) and Iggy Pop's "The Idiot".  Music history buffs know the Iggy Pop album as the one on Ian Curtis' record player as he hanged himself.  I guess I'm lucky I only brought the CD version.

I had figured life out by the time I was 16, or so I believed.  I lived modestly, as I had little choice.  I was fiercely independent, renting my first apartment as soon as I had enough money for the expense.  I was focused, forcing myself to graduate high school a year early to hit the working world a year earlier.  I was in ridiculously good shape, biking 20-40 miles every day.

I lost it all in a matter of seconds.

While I wouldn't stay with my parents after the accident, I went to stay with a teacher who had heard about what happened to me.  She was an amazing teacher, probably the single biggest influence on my way into the world of employment.  She directed me into Future Business Leaders of America, where I found improbable success.  I stayed in a spare room, paid a token amount for rent and food, and tried to figure out my next moves.  She encouraged me to get my driver's license.  On my second try, I passed the exam, and started looking for full time work.  I was reluctantly assimilated, with the faith that I was doing what was best for myself.

I never felt like I was quite right for this world.   I had very few friends, and I mostly didn't like the ones I had.  Even the one I was staying with at the motel was a spoiled piece of garbage and his mother was footing the bill for his stay.  I never wanted to learn how to drive; cars were terrible, polluting monsters.  I was never concerned about money, just as long as I had enough.  Some days I wish the 16 year old version of myself would come over here and kick my ass, reminding me of who I really am.

Instead, I climbed "Honky's Ladder" (another Afghan Whigs reference, because I could) and got the car, the job, and a life that could be the envy of many.  I've never dealt well with this.  At first it was guilt: the thought that I had any entitlement to a good salary without a full education made no sense to me.  Then it was self-loathe: I found nothing I liked about the person I was anymore.

I was never a big consumer of alcohol until I had a fairly devastating relationship failure in 2005.  I've done an awesome variety of drugs, but alcohol was the one that allowed me to fully forget my life and loosen me up.  This week it reminded me that trying to escape my life through the abuse of alcohol just makes it worse, and puts unfair burdens on the people I care about and love.

I woke up Wednesday morning in a hospital with no idea how I got there.  My shirt no longer had buttons.  My keys were gone.  I had $10 left in my wallet.  I called a friend, who happened to be drunk herself at nearly 7AM, begging her to come get me.  When she wouldn't, I became verbally abusive and threatening.  I left another friend voice mails with an awkward combination of tears and whining.

I took a cab to my car, called roadside assistance, had the car towed to a dealership where they made a new key and alarm fob for me, and then took a long drive of shame home, knowing I could never do this again.

I'm sure I still had alcohol in me when I made an inflammatory public post extending a "fuck you for not caring about me"-type message.  If everyone cursed me out, or if there was no response, I surely would have deserved it.  Instead, people have reached out to me.  At some point, I've made friends, and I owe it to them and myself to get better.

I started this blog with self-improvement in mind.  This changes nothing.

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“Existence – well what does it matter? I exist on the best means I can…”

"...the past is now part of my future, the present is well out of hand. The present is well out of hand."

The lyric is taken from Joy Division's "Heart and Soul".

I've lost more weight, but it's not really progress.  I'm still me.  I lack the discipline, the will, the strength, and often the desire to make the improvements that are going to establish myself as viable for this world.

There's a lot of metaphors for ways to demonstrating futility when facing an inevitable conclusion of failure.  "Rearranging deck chairs on the Titantic", "running out the clock", and so on...  I could lose the weight, but so what?  I still wake up wishing I hadn't.

There's really no reward upon reaching my weight loss goals that's going to be worth the time or effort that comes with it.  At varying times, I've had everything in life that I could have possibly wanted, and it was never enough.

Is there anything I actually want?

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Obstacle 1

I suppose I should use fewer music references. I have to make sure this doesn't turn into The Crow graphic novel for fat people, which is really just The Crow.

I've hit my first plateau. Since Saturday, after I did my hour-long treadmill session, I'm down a whopping .3 lbs, including no loss between today and yesterday. There could be a variety of explanations for slow down, but it's still frustrating. These could include, but are not limited to:

  • I had a Totino's Party Pizza yesterday.
  • Sunday and Tuesday (today) featured workouts on an elliptical machine, which I am still learning and adjusting to.
  • My body, already known to be a giant asshole, could be making some unwelcome adjustments to accommodate my workout regimen.
  • That ice cream I had on Sunday wasn't really reduced fat and calories like they claimed.
  • I'm weighing myself wrong or inconsistently.

Yesterday, I detailed the math that I understood went into weight loss.  I still don't understand what I wrote there, but I do know that it's a combination of diet and exercise that's allowing me to lose weight.  Right now, I'm unwilling to make any further diet concessions, so I need to step up my workouts.


“One likes to believe in the freedom of music…”

The above quote is from a Rush song that's roughly the same age as myself called "The Spirit of Radio".

A Google search of "define:radio" yielded this definition:

"The transmission and reception of electromagnetic waves of radio frequency, esp. those carrying sound messages."

Radio, like telephone, is a different beast than it was 30 years ago. They're full-blown mediums that outgrew their dictionary definitions in favor of expansive functionality their inventors could never have imagined. I'm sure Alexander Graham Bell would have pissed in your face if you suggested to him that we'd be using a portable version of his hard-wired telephone to play "Words with Friends" and download videos of people pissing in the faces of others.

There's a reason I'm getting into this, I swear.

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