We all justify our shit.
Some of us do it for sporting reasons, as we don’t want to let our opponent (us) sense our weakness. Because that is, after all, anathema to any competitive endeavor worth suiting up for. And self analysis isn’t simply a sport, it’s a collision sport . . sprinkled in therapy bills.
Take for instance, my diet. Which isn’t a diet in the ’30 day bikini body’ sense. Shit, I haven’t been on that kind of diet since I had a full head of hair and still listened to heavy metal.
If you haven’t tried Kit Kat Dark, you ain’t in love with dark chocolate the way I am. Because I am currently doing the nasty with this sexy thing, once a day. Times several more. And it’s the fates conspiring against my girlish figure, I’m telling you. . . . it’s the fates!
I’m talking diet as per my daily nutritional intake. And I use ‘nutritional’ more loosely than Jenna Jamison uses a movie scene, with every bit of that wicked dollar bill buttah and jam. And as with JJ, when I’m good I am very good. But when I’m bad, you best call Homeland Security . . because shit just got a little too real.
This here interlude is totally the fault of Q, who texted me with some serious 411. Seems I was wasting my time watching the Steelers game whilst The Last Waltz was kicking up on TCM. And so I went there and learned me all over again how Eric Clapton has always had that innate ability to be the coolest cat in the room. And mind you, he ain’t make the scene of any room that wasn’t already full of ’em. Even so. And especially when this happens.
Take last night, for instance . . when I had sex. Filthy, dirty sex. With a platter of twice baked nachos. And the only reason the neighbors didn’t call the police is because I was plugged into the chill weather of my favorite rock band of this, that and every other time. Because when Kansas dropped vinyl, well, they were making the babies that raised my peace of mind. I’m pretty sure the boys didn’t know they were doing me that kind of solid, but hey, that’s why the cosmos wears the most righteous smoking jacket known to man and space. Because the cosmos knows its business like that. It milks sunshine out of the moon, after all.
Anyways, back to my shit for diet. I mean, really . . the fucking dreck that I put in my body should be illegal. Okay, I’m just kidding. I don’t really want to have to wait a couple days until my pain in the ass dealer gets back to me with a quote on a Jimmy Johns Italian sub that’s five times more expensive than what I’m paying currently. By illegal, I mean that it’s too fucking expensive for the body that I wish to wear. Coo?
So it’s Sunday night, 9 pm-ish. I get home, and in spite of the fact I had a late lunch, I’ve been playing defense attorney to my weak ass mentally deficient defendant whose name is Will Power . . . for most of the late afternoon/evening. So by nine o’clock, I’m hungrier than Wolf Blitzer in a blood bank.
I get home and it’s already well beyond too late for me to get civilized. So . . in lieu of a cold glass of water, a crisp apple and a prayer to Jesus . . . I fire up the oven to 350. After which I key in my pass code to the nuclear football- otherwise known as a Tupperware container, filled with loaded nachos I had created inside happier times. (i.e. Saturday night whilst watching college football). And then I commence with spilling a healthy (not) portion of that fucker into an oven safe dish, after which I stuck it inside my own personal highway to hell for fifteen minutes worth of endless regret.
Bon met Appetit. They had kids, after which Maury Povich might’ve gotten involved if my belly wasn’t incapable of having babies. And then, Jerry Springer showed up and forced me to take a box of Nestle Buncha Crunch and pour it on top of a quarter gallon (or so) of vanilla ice cream.
Which is why I run. Like, inside a shit ton of my free time in fact. Three miles at least, six miles when Jesus takes the wheel and throws a cherry on top of my endorphin Sundae. And so what if my bad romance of a diet is gonna catch up with me eventually? For right now, I’m getting away with nutritional murder.
Catch me if you can.