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