Up until a few weeks ago when my fragile little made up story was dashed asunder I was fat and comfortable.

That could have been a major contributor to the dashing and the asundering.

Back when I was in NYC and I was wandering the US with nary a monetary care and a host of philosophical cares, I was a thin, lean, pondering machine.

Somewhere between there and a few weeks ago I got lazy. I ate crap all the time. I got fat.

It’s tough enough to have all your comfort ripped away, all that long term pattern of life tossed aside, all the happy memories causing you physical pain, but then suddenly seeing how fat and lazy you got. Man, that was a slap in the face I did not need.

The good fortune of the emotional turmoil of the past few weeks left me unable to eat and coupled with a renewed need to exercise to burn off the angst and a desire to scream a good portion of the time, I can almost see my stomach muscles again.

And, you know, all of the pain, angst, and crap, the revelations of my previous wasted life, the countless hours of insanity, the countless cups of coffee, the lost hours of sleep, might have been worth it just to be able to not feel like a fat lazy fuck again.