Ya’ll.
Ugh.
OK. I started my “food plan” (I was going to put “dick diet” in parentheses to emphasize my utter disgrace for this food plan I’m on, but, well, “dick diet” could send the wrong message. Phew. Glad I caught that before publishing.)
So, I feel like any time I start a food plan, I ought to send out a mass message. You know, like, a PSA.
This message would serve a dual purpose: to warn and to implore.
A warning, because ain’t no one seen hangry like this kind of hangry.
It starts around 8 AM, when I realize I don’t have a glazed pastry for second breakfast.
It continues when I’m rabidly hungry before my feeding time while monitoring the lunchroom as 100 students stuff their faces with food, and I can’t ask anymore if they’re going to finish their obviously-unloved-food.
I get really effing hangry when I all have to get me through the after-lunch-slump is water instead of 15 Hershey Kisses.
When I get home, and I’m positively famished, don’t even try to look at me unless you’re sprawled out in front of the refrigerator, buck naked, seductively balancing a burrito on your balls.
Don’t.EVEN.
A plea, because as much as I want a gooey, carby, chewy, sweet donut in my mouth, I can’t anymore. My leggings are starting to get stretched out. I just can’t, ya’ll.
Please, please, please do not tell me there are muffins and bagels in the staff lounge. I’ll run my fat ass down there and eat one of each while the rest of my sensible colleagues eat half of either/or.
Please don’t invite me to any parties, celebrations, or special eating functions. The second I see more than one kind of dip, mayo and cheese-based anything, and an over-frosted Costco birthday cake, I’m not giving two shits how many points the 80th dip-covered-chip I’m cramming in my gob will clock in at.
I.have.no.control.
It’s not that I don’t want to help you celebrate. I’ll FaceTime you and sing you Happy Birthday/Congrats/Good Luck, while I eat my Laughing Cow cheese and cucumber. Just don’t let me see any of the food.
Sweet baby Jesus and all that is holy, don’t let me see the food.
(Actually, I hate talking on the phone, and FaceTime is the devil. I’ll just text you.)
I would like to point out that I DO NOT like the fact that I cannot be trusted at parties and get-togethers. I, too, wish that I could attend events without eating enough for three people. I am sorry I suck.
So, as per usual, the week I finally start to get my fat act together, there’s a staff luncheon. Unless you weren’t already aware, teachers, despite being overworked and overextended, know how to work it in the kitchen. The staff luncheons are one of my favorite days of the month. Not to mention, there is usually a Costco cake to celebrate the birthdays that month. There ain’t anything better in this world!
This month, the grade level hosting is doing a Pasta-palooza.
A FUCKING PASTA EXTRAVAGANZA.
I seriously think I will need to get a sub that day.
How in all-that-is-good-and-right-in-this-world will I resist loading my plate with carby goodness and luscious sauce?
Sure, I could always just not go to the staff lounge and be sad eating my salad. But, that only works when I have not one clue that there is food to be had.
It has already been advertised.
This is my problem-the fact that, like a crack addict, I can’t even be within a mile radius of my drug of choice. When your drug is food, that is flat-out impossible.
It is going to take the power of the gods and every ounce of whatever tiny shred of willpower I have in my body to not participate in Pasta-palooza.
Pray for me.
What are YOUR methods for resisting temptations? Let me know in the comments, and maybe I can be helped. Maybe.
Enjoy these memes that I made here. Weight Watchers uses points to track food. Fuck points right now.
All of the memes I generated here were done on imgflip.
Tag: Hangry
Ándale, Asshole
Yesterday, I went to Qdoba. It’s like Chipotle without the violent diarrhea. Qdoba is my go-to when I am in the mood for a burrito the size of my head. And, queso. Mmmmmmm queso.
Like any professional fatty, I always know exactly what I want. I could order my burrito in a coma.
Flour tortilla
White rice
Black beans
Chicken
Grilled veggies (because then all the other calories don’t count)
Queso (*whispering* Can I have just a tiny bit more? But, can you make it look like an accident?)
Cheese
Sour cream
Bag of tortilla chips
I thought everyone was like me when it came to these kinds of places. You go once, create a combination of over-salted, high calorie goodness, and just like that your sweet spot combo is forever etched into your cellulite, like a pleasure map. Then, every single time after it’s exactly what you get, down to the accidental extra queso scoop.
Amiright?
Then, why-please, Lord, tell me why-do people still act a damn fool when there are 80 people waiting in line behind them for their burrito fix?
Why?
This stupid, stupid amateur in front of me in line tonight almost got my brand new striped Toms permanently lodged into her gaping ummmmm-I-don’t-know-yet-hole.
People, do not, I repeat, DO NOT go to a fine establishment like Qdoba unprepared. If you aren’t sure if you want chicken or pork and you treat the available options like a life or death decision, your ass can go to a sit-down affair where you don’t make crazy, hungry fatties wait for you to decide if you want fucking sour cream or not.
I am absolutely fucking convinced there are people put on this planet for the sole purpose of being complete ego-centric jack-offs so that people get high blood pressure and the pharmaceutical companies and doctors are guaranteed a fat, consistent paycheck.
I think the mental health field is in on it too.
This is the only explanation for why someone would take 20 minutes to order one burrito at Qdoba, like it’s a funny game. This chick knew she was being an asshole.
Lord, please give me the strength, patience, and resilience to deal with these unaware, selfish people when I’m dangerously-and when I say dangerously, I mean, I almost did murder-hangry.
Please don’t hold this fatty up, playing like you don’t know what pork tastes like, because you don’t want to be between me and a burrito.
You do not.
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Hangry
Do you ever get to that point in your diet when you could ravenously eat anything in sight? That point when anything sounds better than spaghetti squash? Preferably, that “anything” would be something that is a direct opposite of what is on said diet. Like, I could really go for some movie theater popcorn, drenched in warm, fake butter. Even better, movie theater popcorn with Reese’s Pieces mixed in (they get all soft and warm, and the sweet and salty together is practically orgasmic…)
Anywho…
I am in the super-ridiculously-hungry-for-really-bad-choices stage of my “diet”. I am currently “hangry”. Yes, I am angry because I can’t eat Cheesecake Factory for dinner tonight. Hangry. It’s a real thing.
I may sound ridiculous right now, but wait until you get a load of my thoughts on the ride home today. This is my brain. My brain on hunger pangs.
OMG, I’m coming up on Ijji Sushi. Tempura shrimp, sticky rice, dripping soy sauce. Fuck. I can literally eat my weight in sushi. All You Can Eat is a challenge, not a suggestion for me. I get down to business when it’s Sushi Time.
OK, I can’t see Ijji anymore, phew. But, there’s Applebee’s. I can smell them cooking. Like, through my car vents, 50 yards away, I can smell them cooking. They know I’m driving past. They know I’m hungry. Assholes. I haven’t been to Applebee’s in ten years, yet I could really go for some of their baby back ribs right about now. I don’t even really like ribs, they’re too messy, but I want them. Now.
Thank God I can’t smell ribs anymore. Oh, of course it’s KFC. It’s like the world wants me to be fat. It’s all a big game, it’s sabotage. *Practically licking imaginary grease off fingers*. I know no less than eight people who have gotten food poisoning from various KFC restaurants, but I would risk it for their gravy and mac and cheese right now. I don’t even care.
Finally, I’m on the freeway, and I believe I’m clear. There aren’t many food places along the freeway, as in there are none. However, I pass by The Nugget. The damn Nugget. I don’t know how they do it, but you can always smell their buffet as you pass. It smells like coming home.
OMFG. I smell room temperature prime rib. I smell soggy pasta. I smell unseasoned steamed veggies. I smell runny soft-serve ice cream. I smell…I smell *almost exits, but remembers buffet food always smells better than it tastes*.
When I’m finally home and exhausted from my hungry ride home, I see that my boyfriend has eaten the last of the six My Favorite Muffin muffins I got for free last weekend (I’m part of their rewards program. It really says a lot that I got a whole $12 worth of muffins for free after only being a reward member for a month). Normally, I would be happy that he has removed the temptation. Today, I’m hangry. I see red, I start to shake. I count down from 20, practice my meditation, and lick every last dry, crunchy, stale crumb from the box. I’m not even ashamed.
*Thanks to Ms. Friend, who reminded me today of my favorite word, hangry.
