I eat dry toast and cardboard that is scented like bacon. My sandwiches are devoid of bread at lunchtime because the carbs are bad for me, so they say. Any soup I have tastes and looks like it is just rinse water that was ran over a cow. I count calories, compute body fat and bargain with the scale every morning.

I want a cheeseburger. I want a double Big Mac with a super-size fries and a Gloomberg-defying 32 oz diet pop (must watch the calories, after all). I want to relax for a moment. I want to consider a bloomin’ onion without the masses shrieking in horror. I would kill for a hearty soup. I would rejoice over a reuben made with corned beef instead of a healthier turkey substitute. And pile on the sauerkraut while you’re at it, honey. And yes, double the Russian dressing, double it.

The old scale and the new scale are arguing over four pounds. The new scale won’t budge on his number. He’s a mean, spiteful, son-of-a-bitch that goes and tattles to the world what he just read my numbers as via a nifty wi-fi connection. Who’s friggin’ idea was that? Why does my phone care as to why I weigh? Old scale, always filled with the fear of another dropkick, gives me a number that I can deal with.

I went to the gym last night and spent an hour working out at a pretty good clip. It was a cardio experience. There was lots of sweat, horrible infomercials on the screens and toothpicky people working out for a mere 5 minutes all around me, all so they could go enjoy an evening snack consisting more of inhaling the cat’s food vapors. Not me. You better work it, boy. You might earn a dried grape if you work off 800 calories. I’d rather eat a dog biscuit. I did my tricks.

Somehow I gained 3% body fat in my sleep last night, according to the new scale. Well the new scale can go suck it, as far as I’m concerned.

And today I will soldier on. Cheers to you with a piece of dry, toasted cardboard!