Maybe I shouldn't rely so much on pants sizes to make me feel good about myself. I know that. But it was a pretty big goddamn deal for me to wind up wearing 36 sized pants after not being a 36 forever was a great moment. Then to find out that I'm not actually a 36. That's I'm probably a 39...that's fucking with me.
Why, Esquire, why did you have to turn my wardrobe into a house of lies?
I guess it doesn't diminish my weight loss accomplishment. Since I was wearing a 46 in Old Navy pants so I must have really been a 60 or something ridiculous like that. Fucking hell. Was I really that bad? I didn't feel that bad off. And how can I still be that bad off? What the fuck do I have to do?
It's enough to drive you into depression motivated eating and drinking. Okay, so it already has done that to me, which isn't cool because of that cycle of bad behavior that creates. (You feel bad, so you eat, which makes you feel worse, so you eat again...viola, you wake up at 350 pounds and sweat while typing quickly).
I could go on and on, but I'm tired, a little drunk and it's Sunday so tomorrow is Monday morning. To be continued...