There's more to being unhappy than a vicious task master. There's also dietry concerns; ie not drinking any booze, not going out to dinner, avoiding lovely food like burgers, pizza, ice cream and anything else that isn't good for you - and then of course the guilt when you fall off the wagon with a resounding thump, as I quite frequently do. The only thing I have managed to avoid all year is cigarettes - I had my last cigarette the night I watched Chelsea limp to a 2-1 win over Cluj (who? EXACTLY!!) at Stamford Bridge in December last year. December 9th to be exact.
I haven't had a cigarette since then, and while I'm sure it's done wonders for my health (HA!), I miss them terribly. I miss them like an old girlfriend. An old girlfriend from a damaged teenage relationship. The sort of girl that everyone told you was bad for you. The sort of girl who was bad for you. The sort of girl who'd hurl tantrum after tantrum, play you like a cheap, cracked viola, and generally treat you like shit but you didn't care because she was smoking hot and dynamite in bed. And she could bake great cakes.
That's how much I miss them. The only reason I haven't taken up toking again is that giving up a second time (yes, I'm stupid enough to have quit and then started again!) was such a collossal bitch, I'm not sure I could take round three. Also, my new, enhanced lung capacity can barely cope with some of the things The Beast instructs me to do and I shudder think what would happen I was forced to run up a flight of stairs while nursing a smoking habit. The goop in my lungs would probably be forced into evolving into a sentient being which would then choke me to death if that happened.
Speaking of which, something strange has happened in the last few months - and no, unfortunately it isn't weight-loss, although hopefully that'll be on the way shortly as The Beast has informed me that the next packet of BBQ-flavoured cashew nuts I eat will be the last meal I get to enjoy before he kills me. I am now able to burn 650 calories (if the cardio machine read-outs are anything to go by) without feeling like my innards are going through armageddon. In the last week I've visited the gym three times (and I'll be going again after I finish this, God Help Me) to do cardio, and was able to make it through 40 minutes are sweat-spraying mayhem with little to no ill effects. I'd like to believe that this is my body learning to cope with regular exercise, but then, I'm such a pessimist that I find it more likely that my body is gearing up for some sort of inner rebellion at some stage.
At the very least, I'm in for more pain. I know The Beast reads this blog and will probably be devising some hideous torture to test the limits of my new found endurance. Why print this, then, you ask? Well, he was going to do it anyway. The least I can do to limit the damage is let him know everything's going according to schedule...