Weight: 162.0 (-9.1)
Edgy Enraged Ecstatic
Not a big fan of singing. Truth be told, I'm not head-over-heels in love with showers, either.
But I'll be damned if I didn't find myself singing in the shower this morning. Granted it was an apropos Nine Inch Nails diddy - don't start calling me Mr. Sunshine just yet - but for me it was a relatively happy, frolicking episode nonetheless.
See, usually this time of year I'm knee-deep in holiday postpartum depression. You know the Verizon commercial where the pudgy, bald dude in the frumpy sweater is all slump-shouldered at having to unplug his Christmas lights? That's me. decEMBER UP. JAnuary down.
But not this year.
Maybe it's The Master Cleanser. Dropping nine pounds in 84 hours is dramatic, uplifting. Or maybe it's just a placebo syndrome, my mind tricking itself into thinking The Master Cleanser is working wonders.
Either way - knee-buckling salt-walter flushes and bewildering tea laxatives notwithstanding - so far, so great.
I stared at our web editor Patrick Michels' Trisquit yesterday without frothing at the mouth. I sliced my son's steaming, succulent pepperoni pizza last night without even being tempted to sneak just a nibble. And this morning - swear - I was looking forward to another "lemonade" breakfast.
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As for those of you wondering - it's amazing how many people are curious about bowel movements - yes, I'm beginning to "eliminate" an interesting mix of evil. A color of which I've never seen on any color-wheel spectrum and an unholy smell I wouldn't cast upon my worst enemy. Basically, everything but a license plate, an old tire and that $100 bill I ate on a dare in college is grudgingly, sludgingly checking out of my intestinal hotel.
As horrifying as it is experiencing that crap outside my body, I shudder at the thought that for so long it's been inside me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a meadow of daises to go skipping through. - Richie Whitt