I've been on a diet for almost a fortnight (two weeks for you normal speaking people out there) and I have only lost two pounds! Two measly, probably-water-weight pounds. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I have foresaken my love of alcohol and sugar, have eaten scattered mealettes of lean sustenance throughout my Ben-&-Jerry's-craving, Guinness-and-ale desiring, laundry-doing, toddler-watching, business-planning days and I can't get no satisfaction, Mick and Keith! When I was in college and wanted to lose a few pounds, I'd just barely eat for a few days, surviving instead on coffee and cigarettes and, poof!, ten pounds gone. (For the record, I had a very brief, dormitory-floor-mates-caused smoking habit but I am NOT a smoker. Don't think I haven't thought about it this past week or so of flab-losing failure, however. I went without because of impressionable youngsters, that and because I also haven't found an oxygen-equipped motorized scooter yet that brings out my inner Easy Rider.)
So, once again, Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! I'm mad as hell but I have to take it anyway because if I resume normal eating and drinking habits, I'll gain ten pounds. Ask me how I know.
Coffee Toffee Crunch, I miss your sweet java-flavored creaminess and your Heath Bar chunks. Kiltlifter Ale and Guinness Stout, you both know how I feel; don't make me tear up. Alas, poor Urich, I knew them well.