Self Loathing

Wasn't home more than a half hour 'til I got around to checking my e-mail. Bunch of stuff in my in-box, bunch of crap, couple good things . . . . . and then there was *this:

WTF?

Man, I am a fat fucker.

I don't know when this happened . . . somewhere in between waking up every night at 3am to go eat a couple peanut butter sandwiches and daily living with the attitude, "I'm riding 'a lot', so I can eat whatever I want!"

Everytime I looked into a mirror, I just figured it was lying or that it was warped or hung funny or something. Fuck me! What a fat fucker I've become. I've got tits for God's sake.

Maybe I've always been one and am just realizing it!?!?

Please, don't comment on this post, things like . . . "You look great!" "You're not fat, you're just big boned." "What you lack in physical attributes, you make up for in your cheery disposition!"

. . . I won't have any of it. Don't waste your time typing. Time to face the truth, I am a fat fucker.
(the dirt bag, handle-bar mustache doesn't help with the look either)

What's worse is, despite seeing myself like this, I probably won't change a thing. If I do, it'll last a week or two at the most, then I'll fall back into old habits - I'll be up in the wee hours of the night rummaging through the house trying to find where Christine has hidden the ** cookies & treats on me.

It's too hard to lose the weight and stop eating yummy things.

How heavy do you have to be to race the Clydesdale category??

*Thanks for the pic Mario.
** we don't keep cookies and treats in the house, because I end up eating them all before Chris gets a chance to have any. But for the purpose of this post, it made for the most humor to add this in.