Ftrain, by Paul Ford

October is nearly over, with a loss of 7 lbs. so far. That could be better. Traveling solo in this new disguise is tricky, but I managed it without any terrible disaster. It's easier than it used to be to avoid the more evil foods--at the station, say, the Auntie Anne's abortion-fighting pretzels, or the café car on the train. I have many memories of train meals: they heat up the chicken-and-cheese sandwich in the microwave so that the cheese boils under the plastic, and give you that--along with some pretzels--in a box, along with a beverage. It's the kind of food that chews itself, congealing in the mouth before you can even bite down. You can taste the salt on your hands. At my old place my neighbor and were in a bad way. We were smoking backwoods cigars from the bodega and eating too many pre-fabbed sandwiches, like the ones you get on the train. You pop the plastic with a fork so it doesn't explode. And drinking. My neighbor came over once and heated up two of those sandwiches in my microwave and then put them in a metal tray to eat because he didn't have a plate handy. We called that the "ghetto bento box." The desire to feast on garbage is no longer there. It's the pure stuff--cheese, salt, starch--that still sings to me, rather than the hydrogenated and processed. Good, okay. But sing it does. But the portions, and the desire to fill up on everything at the table are still a problem. It's hard to eat right with my family. We make each other nervous. A few years from now I hope to have the grip I want, but for now, better to be back with [Wife] and [Cats] and a pantry stocked with familiar things. Home is where the handle is.

Weight: 306 lbs