Ftrain, by Paul Ford

My self-appointed volunteer editors on this blog--coworkers--have failed me. They told me only that I've become boring, sure, over and over, but I didn't listen because they bitch about everything--my hair, my face, my flabby man-chest and gut, my loose shirts, my sweater-vests, my messy office, my life choices, my ponderous, blathering prose style, my abuse of the serial comma and my un-funny self-referential grammar jokes. My editors are mice that bray. So I ignored their protests and reasoned: this is a boring project. Some boredom is inevitable. Later it can be more interesting.

Then, yesterday, concerned, I went back and read through what I've written and saw the problem right away; any moron could see it. This is a blog about food, and about being a junkie for food. When it's not about that it starts to suck. Instead of keeping the focus I was getting all Oprah here, thinking about contextualizing myself within the larger framework of recovery and healing and self-awareness. That's a good way to gain weight. Every time you think the word "recovery" and "healing" you put a pound straight on the ass. I'm a lab rat, not a parishioner. Parishioners pray. Lab rats learn. You have to shock their paws over and over again (I have for years had a fantasy of hitting my own hand with a hammer), but they learn.

As a lab rat, my goal is to have a warm but respectful relationship with cookies. I want to see cookies every now and then and hang out, like adults, instead of going over to cookies' house every weekend intending to break up only to find myself taking the train home in the morning with my 3XL underwear wadded up in my purse and crumbs on my face.

I am 70 lbs lighter from my soft top (the opposite of hard bottom) and I am fundamentally the same person I was before. Just as depressed, in fact; hell, maybe even more. I'm fully disabused of the fantasy of rebirth, before-and-after, that forces your narrative hand when you talk about dieting. Let's not pretend I'm going to be anything but the asshole I was when this is over. In fact I have more energy to be more of an asshole, and less social anxiety and vulnerability. This could be worse for everyone except me. And then again, all the weight could come back in a couple of months.

Right now I'm going to go ride my bicycle and organize my thoughts on the foods I used to love and still miss, and why I miss them. I should discuss the qualities of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and their larger meanings. There is a volume there. Andy Capp Hot Fries. Diet Coke. Corn chips. General Tso. Marmalade. Wheat Thins. (I just described my dinner, circa 2004.) One vending machine should be enough for a 7,000-page volume.

Oh and the morning bagel! We need to talk about that.

I demand snax relief.

Boring. Motherfuckers.

Weight: 297 lbs