Dear family & friends,
I regretfully inform you that your beloved friend/overlord/frenemy is evolving into a walking, talking, ravenous stomach.
You got that right. Ravenous.
I’m not feeding another tiny person inside. It’s not that time of the month, and I’m not depressed. (or am I sad without knowing it?) We may have a lead in recent bouts with low self-esteem, or maybe, just maybe, I am the new evolutionary step for humanity. (Wherein we fulfill an R.L. Stine Goosebumps story about giant masses of blobs absorbing everything in existence.)
(Just when we thought zombies would be the end of the world.)
Some bits of evidence:
(I’m uncommonly obsessive about documenting what I eat. It’s been three months, and I haven’t missed a single day. #braggingrights)
Normally, I avoid fast food and junk food, but eat lots of fruits, veggies, grains, and protein. Even if my ultimate weakness involves sweets and chips (perfectly embodied by Royce’s chocolate covered chips) I’m usually able to discipline myself quite well. Except for the past few days, where more and more ‘abnormal’ and food-eaten-despite-being-full kinds of food have been making their way down my esophagus.
I suppose this follows the way successful seductions typically go. All it takes is a tiny little compromise.
Such as a shiny, golden-foiled, mini Twix bar.