Dear Diet,
I hate you.
Your “no bread,” “no sugar” and “pasta is bad!” directives suck. I’m sick of small portions and watching the clock like it’s my J-O-B because I’m counting the minutes until lunch. I loathe the tasteless oatmeal that you insist I start my day with and I’m not ashamed to tell you that despite what you say, the Frosted Mini Wheats in the cabinet will always have my heart. You are a liar; frozen berries do NOT give me “that sweetness I’m craving.” Sugar does. Sugar is sweet and makes everything better and I miss it with a longing that you’ll never understand.
I
know you think that salads are the key to heaven but it’s gotten to the point where if I see another head of romaine I’m going to jam a carrot stick in my eye. And last time I checked, “a handful of almonds” does NOT equal “six.” I don’t know what kind of freakishly small hands you have, but I can successfully balance 27 in mine; it just takes a little patience which, thanks to my hunger-induced rage, is becoming increasingly hard to come by.
You should know that I fully intend to use you for what I need and the minute my favorite jeans loosen up again, we are through. At that point I will swiftly head to the junk food cabinet where I’ll eat my weight in Doritos and wash them down with a bottle of Cabernet. You are just a means to an end, Diet, and I cannot WAIT until you are no longer a part of my life. I’ll keep you around for now but know that every time another sip of lemon water passes my lips, I’m silently cursing you.
Suck it,
Alex
PS: Tell Age and Metabolism to expect a similar letter shortly.
Notes from the Ledge 