It's Been A While Since I Was Your Man

I refuse to give up the self-referential writing game!

Also, when your very last blog post is of a TV crap pitchman who likes to relax by punching out hookers, uh, well, that just can't stand.

I guess I've been feeling better about myself as of late. Work has consumed my daytime for the past six weeks, and pot and GTA IV has consumed my nights. I'm pretty much that boring, fat 22-year old stoner of a roommate you once had, except I have a job, no roommate and I was born during waning days of the Nixon administration. (OK, maybe I'm not feeling so much better about myself.)

Been making slow progress towards overcoming a lot of the anxieties that have besieged me over the past year or so. Also, last Monday was the ex's birthday, and while I was very depressed leading up to it (it had been a major dealio the last two years of my life), once it passed I felt a little relieved. Don't have too many more memorable Jessica-related dates left this year. There's something to not get too depressed about! (The small things, they matter.)

As far as not-so-small things go, I got to lose my fattypants. I realized that so long as I'm overweight, I just won't like myself. That's always been true in the past. Hell, the first time I ever dieted was when I was sixteen, and one day, while washing my dad's car or sweeping leaves or something, my dad told me that "Fat people are never happy. You think John Candy is happy? I guarantee you he's not." (Note: John Candy was several years away from death at that point in time.) Of course, the task is harder than ever now -- I weigh more than I ever have, I'm 35, and my social life revolves around copious amounts of beer and whiskey. So yeah, got to make some of those lifestyle changes I always hear about. On the plus size side, I got my card for the 24-Hour Fitness across the street from my office. I know, I shouldn't be so superficial, but if I can judge a woman's body, I should be forced to judge my own, right?

Also, my friend bought boxing gloves and mouthpieces and wants to wail on me, so I should try to get into some kind of shape so I can fight back. Yesterday I got worn out after 2 minutes of playing fetch with my neighbor's bulldog. The day I can't hang with a four-legged fartsack like that is the day that's clear to me how outta shape I am.

And that dovetails kinda nicely with what my shrink told me a few weeks back: "Dave, you need a girlfriend." While I hate having to admit that I am a needy person -- it's one of those things I never wanted to be, like an alcoholic, that I now am! -- it is healthy to admit it, as losing weight no longer is a goal in and of itself: it is part of the plan for the return of my sexy ways.

Anything else? Well, I was an hour late for work this morning because I was totes hungover, and speaking of fartsacks, I am one.