Open Letter to my Diet

Dear Diet,

I hate you.

Your “no bread,” “no sugar” and “pasta is bad!” directives suck.  I’m sick of small portions and watching the clock like it’s my J-O-B because I’m counting the minutes until lunch.  I loathe the tasteless oatmeal that you insist I start my day with and I’m not ashamed to tell you that despite what you say, the Frosted Mini Wheats in the cabinet will always have my heart.  You are a liar; frozen berries do NOT give me “that sweetness I’m craving.”  Sugar does.  Sugar is sweet and makes everything better and I miss it with a longing that you’ll never understand.

I4153380124_aa4471a8e4 know you think that salads are the key to heaven but it’s gotten to the point where if I see another head of romaine I’m going to jam a carrot stick in my eye.  And last time I checked, “a handful of almonds” does NOT equal “six.”  I don’t know what kind of freakishly small hands you have, but I can successfully balance 27 in mine; it just takes a little patience which, thanks to my hunger-induced rage, is becoming increasingly hard to come by.

You should know that I fully intend to use you for what I need and the minute my favorite jeans loosen up again, we are through.  At that point I will swiftly head to the junk food cabinet where I’ll eat my weight in Doritos and wash them down with a bottle of Cabernet.  You are just a means to an end, Diet, and I cannot WAIT until you are no longer a part of my life.  I’ll keep you around for now but know that every time another sip of lemon water passes my lips, I’m silently cursing you.

Suck it,


PS: Tell Age and Metabolism to expect a similar letter shortly.


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