Sequels suck

I've fallen off the wagon so much this week that the wagon seems to no longer exist. There is the idea of the wagon, but its physical manifestation is nowhere to be found. It's so far gone in the distance that I can hardly see it.

Today I feel sick and disgusted with the way things are going. My pants are getting tighter. The size 10 jeans that I fit into for a fleeting and glorious two weeks now bring only two words to mind: muffin and top. I need to turn this around right now. Right this minute. This is not because I want to see a certain number on the scale, or a particular clothing size. It's because I feel terrible.

Last night I had a dream- a nightmare, really- that I was attending a family gathering. Everyone kept staring at me with a look of pity in their eyes. I'd see them whispering, then they'd abruptly stop when I'd get within earshot. Was my zipper down? Did I have bird shit on my forehead? Why were they looking at me like that?! I frantically searched for a mirror, and when I found one, I saw my former, fat self looking back at me. Every pound I'd worked so hard to get rid of was back- strapped to my belly in three massive rolls. My fingers looked like sausages, and the jawline that I'd once admired was obscured once again.

In horror movies, when you think the monster (or serial killer, or whatever) is finally dead, it always has to open its eyes for that one final scare. In my dream, Fat Morgan was the monster, and she was trying to kill me once again, because the damn bitch just won't seem to die.

Die, fat Morgan, die!