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Mar. 27th, 2009 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hathycolOkay, world, this is getting too much now. As people may be aware, I am currently mid-snaggletooth, and I've sort of stopped eating at my usual pace. It's just too much effort, basically. I am one of those people with a fairly healthy appetite and a tendency to eat when I'm bored; nothing dramatic, really, but I'll have half a packet of Minstrels or something. I'm not unhealthy because of it, and I'm aware that I need to do more exercise, but my diet is just peachy, generally. I actually eat fairly well, in a sort of studenty way.
Anyway. I'm eating three meals a day and all, but everything has to be soft and small. I'm so sick of soup, and boiled eggs. I tend to go a bit more mad of an evening and rock out to things like lasagne and chili, but all of it is small and tiny and bitesize. I just want to eat some chicken. Or a cheese toastie. Oh, christ, I'd kill for a cheese toastie. But I can't, not for another three weeks. So because it's too much effort to work out snacks, I don't eat them. And voila, off comes the weight, but I don't want to lose weight, especially just through diet; okay, jokes about my arse looking like a spacehopper aside, I think I have some rather lovely curves. I'd like to be more toned, but GUESS WHAT KIDS, just dropping weight ain't gonna do this.
Also not eating is MAKING ME CRAZY. I'm not going hungry or anything, but, well, fairly constantly peckish but not to the extent of risking the tooth.
So yesterday, I went into a meeting a work. I had to bring a photo of a favourite holiday (I took one of me,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amchau and loneraven at Collectormania 7) and something that represented me. Jokingly, I brought along a teabag, on the basis that even when I am eating normally I still drink about six cups a day of it, I take a bit of getting used to, and I like hot baths. Oh, and I'd like to be advertised by Stephen Fry eventually.
The meeting at work was a big pile of nonsense, as usual; everyone else ate hotdogs (it was meant to be a barbeque, but we're in Scotland and it's March) and I refused, on the basis that a. sausage and b. it'd rip my teeth out. My boss was very impressed at my weight loss and kept on banging on about how you could really tell, it had all come off my face. (Clearly I was only employed at Fat Face because I fit the criteria!) However, there's no way on earth I'm going to say no to a glass of cider, so I drank that. This was a mistake. I'd only had lunch. I went for another pint on the way home, because, well, why on earth not. Needless to say, I was wasted by the time I got home at 9pm (ask Katie), and therefore couldn't be arsed preparing anything more dramatic than toast.
The moral of the story is that I've bought a tin of custard and will snack on this as far as is possible for, you know, the next three weeks. Oh, and I don't react well of alcohol without food.
Also I still have to finish my bastarding essay and faff around with all the trillion other things I have to do and I will do it all whilst being apparently slightly thinner than usual. I'm fed up of having to be paranoid about my bloody tooth. I'm fed up of having days of fail, and job applications, and essays, and god knows what else.
On the bright side, living in Scotland means that I don't have a Robin Hood and Primeval clash tomorrow - I can watch both in quick succession. Wahey.
Anyway. I'm eating three meals a day and all, but everything has to be soft and small. I'm so sick of soup, and boiled eggs. I tend to go a bit more mad of an evening and rock out to things like lasagne and chili, but all of it is small and tiny and bitesize. I just want to eat some chicken. Or a cheese toastie. Oh, christ, I'd kill for a cheese toastie. But I can't, not for another three weeks. So because it's too much effort to work out snacks, I don't eat them. And voila, off comes the weight, but I don't want to lose weight, especially just through diet; okay, jokes about my arse looking like a spacehopper aside, I think I have some rather lovely curves. I'd like to be more toned, but GUESS WHAT KIDS, just dropping weight ain't gonna do this.
Also not eating is MAKING ME CRAZY. I'm not going hungry or anything, but, well, fairly constantly peckish but not to the extent of risking the tooth.
So yesterday, I went into a meeting a work. I had to bring a photo of a favourite holiday (I took one of me,
amchau and loneraven at Collectormania 7) and something that represented me. Jokingly, I brought along a teabag, on the basis that even when I am eating normally I still drink about six cups a day of it, I take a bit of getting used to, and I like hot baths. Oh, and I'd like to be advertised by Stephen Fry eventually. The meeting at work was a big pile of nonsense, as usual; everyone else ate hotdogs (it was meant to be a barbeque, but we're in Scotland and it's March) and I refused, on the basis that a. sausage and b. it'd rip my teeth out. My boss was very impressed at my weight loss and kept on banging on about how you could really tell, it had all come off my face. (Clearly I was only employed at Fat Face because I fit the criteria!) However, there's no way on earth I'm going to say no to a glass of cider, so I drank that. This was a mistake. I'd only had lunch. I went for another pint on the way home, because, well, why on earth not. Needless to say, I was wasted by the time I got home at 9pm (ask Katie), and therefore couldn't be arsed preparing anything more dramatic than toast.
The moral of the story is that I've bought a tin of custard and will snack on this as far as is possible for, you know, the next three weeks. Oh, and I don't react well of alcohol without food.
Also I still have to finish my bastarding essay and faff around with all the trillion other things I have to do and I will do it all whilst being apparently slightly thinner than usual. I'm fed up of having to be paranoid about my bloody tooth. I'm fed up of having days of fail, and job applications, and essays, and god knows what else.
On the bright side, living in Scotland means that I don't have a Robin Hood and Primeval clash tomorrow - I can watch both in quick succession. Wahey.
