wagon get off

I've fallen off the wagon.



FUCK.



I'm not smoking, but I AM eating.



I'm eating like someone who has been locked in a basement for eight years - solid and in the dark - with nothing but air and mould to eat, when one day someone comes along to set them free, and immediately places them in the middle of a cake factory.



And the previously-captured mouldatarian dry humps cake vats whilst stuffing said cake into hole in face, in a forage of chocolate gateau crumbs and excitable sweat.



Dude. That's me. This week.



The colleague that I have been tag-teaming on our rigorous WeightWatchers regime has unwittingly gone on holiday to Guernsey this week. Leaving me to my own weight watching devices.



First chink in the chain leading to food-induced mega-meltdown.



I was doing fine until Wednesday. When a group of us went to thee most wankworthy Mexican restaurant this side of Acapulco. It's off Warren Street, if anyone is interested.



Starters were ordered to share, everything from melted cheese to floury tacos to salsa's and guacamole's and margaritas and Jesus I can't even remember because I went ballistic.



And it was the tastiest food sensation I've had in fucking weeks. I literally slide off my chair in post coital delight.



Then last night we had a mate around and opened a bottle of [it wasn't Diemersfontein, so does it even matter?] pinotage.



And henceforth decided to eat twenty chocolate biscuits.



I've put on 400 grams. According to my scale of Death.



That's like, what, a pencil?



Gutted. And to make matters worse had a dream last night that I was smoking cigarettes.

And in the dream I remember saying, "Oh it's fine. This is a dream, and so I can smoke as much as I want."



TAKE ME BACK TO THAT DREAM MOTHERFUCKER.



Gah! Fuck asshole cuntish control. AND! I cycled to work pretty much every day this week.