Working late and the coworkers are deciding between the Dirty Bird (aka Red Robin) or the Walk-up Fish Bar (aka Ivar's). Both hold a special kind of doom for me because, while I won't ordering, the mere fact that French fries will be near at hand might be enough to send me over the edge. I've had a long and stressful day, and my resolve is at a very low ebb. I'm cranky, tired and ready to chuck it all because I'm at work past 8 pm for the second night in a row. That crap puts me in a foul mood and fries might just be the balm for that hurt.
But no. They decide on the fish. I decide to hold my ground and let that hurt join the already fierce ball of black hate that has settled into my lower intestine. One day, it will break free and you'll see the news reports of a freshly skinny man, raving madly through the streets, rubbing thick-cut steak fries all over his body with one hand while spritzing himself and horrified onlookers with a squeeze ketchup bottle with the other hand.
Also, someone left this powdered cinnamon roll on the table behind me in my cubicle row. Eh. Easy to resist.
Total weight loss: 188.5 lbs.
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