I am not quite ready to leave the 180 mark behind, but the scale at the house read 179 this morning and the scale at the supermarket read 183 fully clothed in the afternoon so I am approaching the milestone of dropping under 180 for good (until and unless I get stupid again, which could be the death of me, but I will eat chocolate and frosting and pasta and pizza and cheeseburgers and ice cream and fudge and more again someday. In moderation, as they say, whoever they might be. The healing is not going as well as usual and next week could be a painful experience as I plan on eating real food most days as I play in a week long softball tournament out of town and will be staying in a room and sharing a bathroom with three or four other guys and chauffeuring at least one of them around all week. Not a whole lot of privacy to wipe my ass, to be blunt.
At the fields my only alternative may be filthy out-houses so I best travel with my wipes and ointments in my pocket as I wander around all day. Balancing magnesium citrate and stool softeners with real food and not too many calories will be a trip and I dearly hope I do not have to rush off the field. I best have wash clothes, foam soaps, sanitary pads, and chance of clothes ready as well. Diaper? I haven't gone there yet, but I am considering buying and bringing some. The title might as well be referring to age, not weight. What a drag it is getting on. A smelly drag at times. Will anyone stay awake with me?
Who's gonna love me when I'm old?
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