I am tired of this depression. But I can never be happy as an obese slob. I have to lose weight! Lose it and bury it and jump on the ground. Plant an oak tree over it, so its roots will go deep and keep that ugly, yellow, globby fat buried forever.
Okay. New day, new week, relatively new month, brand-new season. It’s spring! Lovely time of year. New hope in the air. I will fill my lungs with it. (It’s about time to fill something besides my stomach.)
I’m going to start a visual aid in my home. I’m going to start saving margarine boxes. I’m going to keep a stack of them where I can see them. Each pound I lose will be represented by one empty margarine box. My stack is going to grow like wildfire.
I am beginning to feel optimistic again through the magic of my pen. It writes hope for me. It spells out freedom. It inscribes dreams and goals, and soon, the reality of a thin me.