Monday, 16 November 2009

You might wanna skip this gets kinda grim...

NOTE: My medical situation is such that I actually can't speak for very long, if at all. As a consequence it's very likely that I'll be blogging a lot more to compensate and let the poison out, so to speak. Apologies in advance...
2001, A.K.A. "The good ol' days". Stairs were a bitch but by Christ it was nice to have chicken wings whenever I wanted...

I've noticed with some alarm that a female acquaintance of mine has taken to referring to me as 'chum' in text messages and emails. While not factually inaccurate, it's a little undermining - here are a few terms that I'd consider to be mildly less emasculating:
'My gay friend'

I'm assuming she's decided to assert the strictly-platonic nature of our friendship in a preemptive move against any potential transference issues. Since getting sick I've been reaching out for coddling and conversational hair-stroking like an attention-seeking, self-pitying adolescent and it's probably knocked any trace elements of legitimate manliness out of me. That and the fact that, after four years of regular weight loss, I'm still a man with tits. Sure, they're smaller and perkier now, but their upright, conical pointiness kinda makes it worse. Statistically speaking, any girl's fat friend (or 'chum') is the person least likely to wind up in the sack with her. I'm generalising of course - had there not been the odd exception I'd have probably suffered some kind of testicular blow-out by now.
Note how I'm not even attempting to deny my intentions here. That's because at the end of the day my mind works exactly the same way every other man's mind does. If you're female and I know you, it's very likely I've contemplated making some kind of move. It's the one thing I have in common with every other straight man you know. In my case it's called 'playing the odds', something one ends up doing automatically when one spent most of one's teens looking like an oddly-shaped potato.
2001, that same summer. In hindsight, maybe an intervention of some kind was in order...

After a fairly substantial decrease in mass earlier this year I'm now officially in the final stretch, but through focusing on exercise of late I now weigh more (through either increased muscle mass or a large, undiscovered tumor) than I did six months ago. Two shirts I bought in August that were too snug at the time now fit very I'm getting thinner...but I'm gaining weight?
It's confusing as all fuck.In frustration I genuinely contemplated the weight loss aid Alli, which is now a legal product in the UK. I quickly recalled a conversation with my GP back in 2006, in which he offered to put my name forward as a candidate for testing the drug. Here's the ensuing exchange as best I recall it:

GP: It has been quite successful in the States, albeit with side effects.
Me: Side effects, eh? Well, gee-whiz, how bad can they be?
GP: Depends. The drug works by stopping the absorption of fat during digestion, so it leaves your body as waste.
Me: So, I poo fat, basically?
GP: Well, it's kind of a fat/poo cocktail. What you evacuate is essentially grease. The side effects mainly involve loss of control over your bowel movements.
Me: Just to get this straight: My options are to either spend less money on fatty foods, or pay for a drug that might see me shitting hot grease on a regular basis, with no control over when or where?
GP: It's advised you carry spare trousers wherever you go.
Exeunt, pursued by a bear

Well, I made the 'bear' bit up. But having lived twenty-two years without ever having any kind of pant-shitting incident (post-diapers), I was fairly certain I didn't want to start then and politely declined by backhanding the GP with his own clipboard and scampering away, fearful tears running down my cheeks.
At the end of the day, it's an issue of continued willpower and, while it's always going to be boring, I've managed so far without surgeries or nightmare incontinence pills.
Endeavouring to actually improve my physique rather than just get smaller, my legs and arms are in pretty good shape while my mid-section still maintains a consistency similar to that of briefly-microwaved cookie dough. So I've abandoned the scales as an accurate record and am instead going by punching holes in a belt. Not that scientific but it's less likely to fluctuate inexplicably.
Here's where I am now. It may be overly-ambitious but I'm hoping to reach my goal...hole by the new year.My next entry will be considerably less fecal, I promise.

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