This whole not sleeping thing is getting a tad old.
It’s getting worse, even.
I’m currently sitting at my kitchen table scarfing down a butter-covered potato and onion concoction I threw together.
Aaaand the milk I’m drinking out of a classy green mug just went down the wrong pipe and I had a coughing fit. So much for not waking up my housemates.
But I lay in bed just a minute ago thinking I’m craving those potatoes I made earlier. I really want more. Like, really want more.
I tried to silence my thoughts but they’re just as stubborn as the rest of me.
You have a kitchen at your disposal now, Emily, and a cupboard full of groceries.
I read something recently that said, “Ordering a pizza at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday isn’t going to kill you.”
It’s Thursday. I’m eating potatoes instead of pizza. Sure, they’re smothered in butter, but there are onions, too! That makes them healthy, right?
I never used to care about that shit, but my one housemate counts calories while I shovel my dinner down my throat. Then I have seconds. Later on I have thirds. Then a bowl of ice cream. And probably a chocolate bar to top it all off.
Then I feel guilty, but I eat these potatoes at 1:15 a.m. on a Thursday, anyway.
My weekend ritual is to come home, heat up a plate identical to my carb-heavy dinner hours earlier and then eat it in bed while drinking as much water as my stomach can hold.
I worry about my weight sometimes, but not enough to give up these late, late night “snacks” or that bowl of ice cream I had earlier. Sometimes I’m not exactly happy with what the scale says when I step on it. My coach freshman year weighed us and made me that way. I gained ten pounds in muscle weight from the weight room and haven’t lost it since.
We don’t have a scale in our townhouse.
I think women worry too much.
Stop counting calories. Just eat the damn potatoes.
Especially if they’re covered in butter.
Now my full stomach and I must catch some Zs.