Unbelievable. So that has gotten me out of bed an hour or more earlier than I should have. And the time I should have gotten out of bed - 4.45am - is obscene in itself.
That will fuck up my whole day.
I'm a bit down on the walk this week. I don't know if it is because I am tired from doing it for two weeks, or if I feel that I'm not losing as I was, I don't know. The answer of course is to keep going, no matter how you feel, because you have to keep plodding, plodding along to a healthier, leaner, grog free existence.
Or so goes the mantra.
You can see the attraction of wretched debauchery. Of throwing caution to the wind. Of getting pissed, eating at fancy restaurants all afternoon, of wild women, bad manners, and fuck all exercise.
That's man's natural state, really. If we are honest.
This trudging off into the fucking dark with your 60 year old mother to look at glowing spider eyes and hope you eat less and get thinner is all a bit fucking depressing.
Perhaps I'm just shitty because I've been up for a fucking hour already.
I have never regretted the exercise once I've dragged my fat arse out the door. By contrast, I have almost always regretted binge drinking.
Almost.
It's hard to have a wild one sober. Not because you wouldn't be up for it, but I think your drinking companion wouldn't drink enough to be up for it. And perhaps you yourself lack a bit of dutch courage to push things along.
Anyway, I must find my shoes. The terminator will arrive in 15 minutes, exactly.
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