Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Weight loss contests and speed

I have a big mouth.  It's no secret.  Sometimes my ego writes checks my body can't cash.  Such was the case about two weeks ago when the owner of the company I work for and I were smack talking weight loss.  And when I say we were smack talking, I mean I was smack talking.  Anyway, we were talking bet when Rudy pointed out, with the wisdom of a sage, that I had nothing to bet with.  Someone suggested "fun bet".  I said, "I don't do fun bets".  Like 'The Princess Bride', we were at an impasse.  I said finally, "how about this?  If I drop thirty by July 4, I get a hundred dollar bonus."  He said, "Ya, ok."

For one thing, there really is no reason he should benefit from my weight loss, so it was bold to suggest that I get a bonus for bettering myself.  Bold happens to be my middle name, however, and I figured the claim was outrageous enough that he'd agree.  And he did, so here we are.

Naturally, the first thing I did was ponder how I could cheat in this contest.  I joked about taking Meth for a couple weeks for that extra high octane slimming effect.  I quickly discarded the idea as I considered the fact that there are no two week meth users.  I considered using a scale that I purposefully un-balanced to give me a slight ten pound edge.  If no one was paying attention, that could work.  It could also backfire though, if any witnesses wanted me to verify the feat on any of our other ten scales.

So I mulled and plodded, feeling somewhat discouraged by the clear asymptotic weight loss, trending toward none after a couple weeks of aggressive shedding.  And on a Tuesday afternoon, this doctor fellow came in and we got to talking.  He heard about the little contest.  Because I told him.  He asked if I wanted to win.  I kinda shrugged the remark off, thinking he was asking about my personal feelings or some latent, competetive, disposition.  He asked again, "Do you want to win?".  Now he had a look of mischief that I was all too familiar with and I said, "Ya".  He said, "I could prescribe you some 'Phentermine', and the pounds will fall off."  I said, "What is that?  Speed?"  He looked at me, smiled, smirked, and said "Ya". 

So, this sounded like a legitimate way to cheat marginally in the contest and earn an extra hundred bucks, or a net of 80 after buying the pharmaceutical grade speed.  Now, don't go thinking I considered this some legitimate way to relive drug days or anything.  I've never taken any of the street drugs associated with cleaning aggressively.  But in my mind it sounded intense enough that it might just work.

To tell the truth, it doesn't really amp you up that much.  I'm a little disappointed.  I kinda hoped to conquer the world on the shoulders of modern chemistry.  Caffeine gives me more energy.  And, ironically, my sleep has improved since taking this stuff.  Pfft.  Whatever.

I was running laps in the apartment, grinding my teeth, and talking to myself like the micro machine man wondering if this stuff was going to have any effect.  I took a look in the mirror and my pupils were, uh, perhaps a bit small in diameter.  And I was hopping from foot to foot.  Hmm.  Whatever.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Drunk dialing the boss

It's 11Pm.  You have to be up in five hours.  Your phone ringsYour heart races.  Fearing the worst, you check your phone as your boyfriend leans over to see what the problem is.  You laugh, and return the text.  Confused, your boyfriend asks, "What was that about?"

"Oh, that was just Corey from work..."

If I were narrating this, an appropriate song would play out as I got to that last part and a split screen would show empty bottles of Sky Vodka.  Ya, that and some straws leaning to the side of about three Long Island Iced Tea glasses.  Just another Saturday night.  The loneliest night of the week.

Some of you may have noticed the review of my boss' coolness on the Facebook page.  That I totally wrote.  And wasn't her hacking into my stuff like she was some Mission Impossible flunky.  And when I say hacked, I might mean that I didn't sign out.  On the office computer.  At the front desk.  Hey, If you don't roll the dice, you aren't in the game. Pfft.

So, somewhere along the way on Saturday I figured out that Rachelle left an update on my facebook deal.  I promptly responded by calling her, or so she says, and pouring forth with a gem of Stewart proportions...

Sometimes if you want to know if the noodle is cooked, you gotta throw it against the wall.  To hear her tell it, it was like a full frontal assault.  I say there may be some wishful thinking, Freudian slips, or otherwise a projected disposition here.  No biggie.  I'm big enough to manage the delicate balance between overt criminal unwanted advances and complete disinterest.  It would appear that balance lies at Rod Stewart.  Ha!

Btw, I'm blogging this at work.  In every one's face.  Hella risky Indeed.  Gotta walk the knife edge.