Feline, Not Canine

I braved the scale at the grocery store.  Uh-oh.  I am determined to torture myself now.  Determined may not be the right word.  I know I should.  I've never needed to lose more than a few pounds before, so this. . . is daunting.  And what is my motivation?  It is not like losing the weight will get me anything.  Nobody cares, really.  Certainly not the cat. All she does is eat and lie about.  How does she do it?  Dogs can't do that and keep their looks.  But cats. . . there is some magic there.  Inexplicable.  I, rather, grow fat and sleek like an old pasha.  Perhaps I will eat like one, grapes and nuts and dates and figs and exotic cheeses and flatbreads and goats and sheep.  I will need a grocer.  I will need a cook.

I will be sexy like A.J. Liebling.

But my fat is from stress and exhaustion and the self-medication that is inherently connected to that.  It has made me lazy, not like a cat but like a cow.  Bovine fat.  Perhaps porcine.

I will quit drinking.  That will help.  But. . . I have a nice bottle of champagne that should not go to waste.  It must go to waist.  I know I should have it tonight.  Yes, yes, one more night.  An orgy of the senses.  It is rainy and will continue thusly for days.  When the sun comes out. . . I will begin anew.

Enough babbling.  Here is a photo--feline, not canine.