The nine-point-eight turned into 12, you know. Twelve pounds gone, and I was very happy about it, as happy as you'd expect me to be, because you know me, you know what makes me happy, you know that nothing makes me more blissed out than my own shrinking body.
But... somewhere between 9.8 and 12, somewhere between one spinach salad and a lovely bit of mah-mahi, somewhere between the pants that were tight at the beginning of the summer and aren't anymore... I got excited about something else.
Look, poppets. You know me. You know that four slutty boys wearing nothing but unbuttoned Levis won't distract me from looking in the mirror when I'm on a downward swing.
And then I wrote a few large cheques, and suddenly, I bought a condominium. I'm a property owner. And now, suddenly there is something bigger and more emotionally taxing out there than my arse. I think it's my future, cleverly disguised as a mortgage, flavoured with a watered-down bit of familial guilt and sprinkled with my own shock that this was not how I'd originally planned things out. You know. When I was fifteen.
Iím not unhappy. I just havenít wrapped my mind around it yet.
More soon. I'm still digesting. Does this kind of thing have a lot of carbs, do you think?
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