Day 14:  Weigh-in day.  Down another 4lbs.  I take the lead in this contest.  I worry I’ve peaked too soon.  However, everyone’s starting to plateau.  Everyone starts to convince each other that this is typically the way manic weight-loss programs go – you drop a ton right away, then skid to a halt.  Truth is, I don’t think any of us were trying as hard in the second week as we were in the first week.  I know I wasn’t.  The minute a curry or Mexican showed up, I was like Blutarsky at the cafeteria line.   I just keep thinking about how hungry and grumpy (more than usual) I’ve been the past two weeks, and I gotta look ahead to doing that for another three weeks.  Three more weeks of this bullshit.

Day 15:  Did you know that if you eat a lot less, you poop a lot less, too?  It’s totally true.  When you think about it, it makes sense.  Less going in, less coming out.  I have no more epic poops.  None.  What a goddamn killjoy this is.  The thrill of colossal dumps is a totally a guy thing, by the way.  If you have any doubt, just watch the South Park episode where Randy takes the most epic shit, then enshrines the deuce for his buddies to marvel at.  It’s one of the most brilliant episodes of all time.  There goes one of the few things I’m good at, right out the window.  Or rather down the toilet.  It’s like there is literally no fun to be had whatsoever when trying to lose weight.  I’ll bet Kate Middleton poops just one chocolate chip every three weeks.

Day 16:  I think I may be developing an eating disorder.  There is such a small window of contentment each time I eat.  Because I’ve got to eat less, my meal usually consists of about three bites and then I’m done.  I’m done before I can even figure out what the fuck it tastes like.  Then I’m still hungry afterward.  So I get something else to eat.  But the minute I’m done with the second thing, I’m racked with guilt and I feel like a fat, lumpy turd.  If I could draw this on a scale, it’d probably look like this:

In three weeks, I have yet to finish a meal feeling, “I’m satisfied, I’m done.”  I’m either still hungry or I feel like I gorge my fat face.

Day 17:  I met an old friend for lunch today at The Breslin.  I’d been wanting to check this place out for ages, so I thought, fuck it let’s do it.  If I weren’t in this contest, I’d help myself to all the rich goodness on the menu – anchovies, bone marrow, you name it.  Instead, I got the special that sounded like a typical English breakfast.  Baked beans, eggs, and sausage.  Except the sausage – oh glorious pork sausage – was crusted and DEEP-FRIED!  Washed it all down with a unexpectedly delicious Empire Cream Ale.  Oh my God, was that lunch practically orgasmic.  I spend the rest of the afternoon contemplating the repurcussions of my indulgence.  I’m so overcome with guilt again, the minute I get home, I bolt right back out and head to the gym.  Punish myself with a 45 minute workout.  But I got some extra punishment – some jerkoff was bogarting the remote and kept the TV tuned to some fucking hockey game.  Hockey!  Who gives a shit, we’re still in the midst of football season.  I know there wasn’t any football playing at that very moment, but I sure as fuck didn’t give a shit about hockey!   A bullshit workout made worse by stupid TV.

Day 20:  Epic fail to see out the week.  I end the week with a four-day binge.  It was the Breslin one day, Keen’s the next, then it was a Chinese New Year dinner hosted by my local Chinese restaurant (I’m tight with them), followed by another epic Chinese New Year’s eve dinner in Chinatown.  Four straight days of stuffing my fat fucking face.  In the four days, I devoured fried sausage, a bloody steak, fried lobster, greasy noodles, ribs, curry, abalone, and whole fish.  Chinese New Year is all about food.  Why can’t I come from a culture where it’s all about having great shoes or where short people get laid all the time?  This is bullshit.  It’s like I’m doing everything I can to lose this contest.  Today, I might as well have helped myself to a pound of chicharrón and washed it down with a pint of clarified butter.