The jihad has begun.

I’ve talked a bit in the past about bariatric surgery. Well, I have been approved by my health insurer (which was a huge friggin’ surprise) and we’re a go for February 12th. This all sounds somewhat sudden, but it has been a work in progress for about eleven months.

Anyways… in about three weeks I will undergo a laparoscopic surgery in which my stomach is stapled down to the size of a Tic-Tac, all in hopes that I will one day be able to shop at Banana Rebublic. You were hoping I was going to say Hot Topic, weren’t you? I can’t wait to buy clothes I actually like (hello booty pants), as opposed to clothes that just fit. I can’t wait for the day that people don’t look at me with disgust. And I can’t wait to get on an airplane and sit comfortably in my seat. It’s tough being fat. No matter what you achieve, you’re still viewed as a slob, and you’re still ashamed to go back to your high school reunion.

Anyone who thinks this is the easy way out, well, let me tell you. I first had to be on a physician-supervised weight loss program for six months. I wrote down everything I ate for 180 days. Then came the psychiatric evaluation. Do they really think I’m going to unfurl all my freak when I’m trying to prove I’m sane? Then the hospital where I’m having the surgery made me lose weight — they wanted me to lose 10 pounds in one month — over the holidays no less. I did them a few better and lost 13. This weight loss happened after they reduced me to tears, telling me they wouldn’t let me have surgery unless I proved I was “compliant.” Being able to say no to Christmas cookies — if that isn’t compliant, I don’t know what is.

Now I have to be on a blended diet (jello, applesauce, mashed potatoes, oatmeal) for THREE WEEKS prior to surgery to shrink my stomach, my liver and help me lose more weight. What kind of sick fucking joke is this? The only thing getting me through this is the thought that somewhere on a remote deserted island, the Survivor contestants are eating less than I am. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK! Don’t think I wouldn’t slit your throat with a plastic spork for some queso and tortilla chips right now. I could do it, and no court of law would convict me.

I mean, it’s not that I don’t know HOW to diet. I could, for example, tell you how many calories and fat grams are in that Ding Dong you’re holding, as well as how many turns you’ll have to take on untitledmother’s Ab Lounger to burn it off. Did someone say Ding Dongs? Just give me a moment here…

OK, I’m back. The thing with us fat people is that we have some sort of chemical disposition that makes food like a drug to us. We feel incomplete unless we eat. It consumes our every thought. Me and chocolate — it’s like Whitney Houston and her crack pipe. And I’m saying this in all seriousness. The only time I wasn’t subject to this Vulcan mind control was when I was pregnant — which makes me think that fatness (I refuse to use the word “obesity” or god forbid “morbid obesity”) is hormonal or chemical.

I want you all to take this journey with me (I KNOW you want to come), so I’m going to post pictures of myself along the way, along with updates and musings on what it’s like to eat a pureed peanut butter sandwich. I imagine it will go something like this: “Today I ate a piece of bread and was stuck on the shitter for FIVE hours.” “I wonder if I can blend Swiss Cake Rolls?” “I bet I could make me a handsome set of luggage with this leftover skin.”

I hope that when the year has passed, you’ll get to see something cool — kind of like when you were in second grade and got to watch the butterfly emerge from its cocoon. It’s either going to be like that, or like watching a stick of butter melting in a pan.

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