No is Before

I promised myself I wouldn't write another post until the Lunar New Year holiday was officially over, but I feel as though I left my dog in the car in summer with the windows rolled up (which I sorta did, only in my apartment in winter without food; contact PETA), so here's a quick update -- in case you want to become my biographer or something -- on what I've been up to since my holiday began at 3 p.m., Tuesday afternoon:

Constant Retards will recall that last summer I resolved a workout schedule which, despite mindfuckingly painful headaches, I stuck to...for a few months. These days, I'm back to my former weight and musculature. My belief: as long as my arteries stay unclogged, my penis stays the same size, and I don't have to wrestle The Undertaker in front of twenty thousand spectators, exercise is a waste of time.

Anyway, I got home on Tuesday at 3:15, dicked around on the Internet for a few hours (if you're reading this, you know how that is), felt a little hungry, and thought I should probably grab a bite to eat. Thing is, I was also pretty sleepy. Nap or food? Nap or food, genius? I don't know about you, but, for me, nap always wins.

I awoke a few hours later. Weirdly, my appetite was gone, as was my sense of logic. Somehow I thought it a good idea to wait until Hot Lips would arrive at 10, go out for a few drinks, then eat when I got home at the end of the night. I come up with stupid ideas like that all the time.

Like I said, I wasn't hungry; so when HL arrived later that evening, I lied and said I'd had bibimbap. I'm so nefarious.

It was cold, so instead of walking to Hongik University Station like we usually do, we popped into a bar/restaurant a block or so from my place. Maybe it was my latent hunger, or maybe it's because you're such a disappointment as a child; whatever the reason, I proceeded to drink five beers and three shots of whisky in under an hour. On an empty stomach. To make matters worse, when we arrived home I was so tired that I went to bed without supper like Max in Where the Wild Things Are. (Sadly, no hallucinations.)

I woke up the next morning with a headache to match the size of my ego and a stomach as ravenous as Robert Carlyle in the movie of the same name (Ravenous, not Robert Carlyle, I mean). HL, who monitors my weight like fantasy sports players do box scores, asked me to step on the scale.

68.7 kilograms.

Now, for the longest time girly girl has politely mentioned that she would love for me to put on some weight -- to her, 75 kilos is ideal, but she'll live with something above 70. So I knew by her reaction to the number that drastic measures had to be taken. She looked as shocked upon seeing the number 68.7 as Salé and Pelletier did upon seeing their score at the 2002 Olympics.

I would make it up to her, I told myself. Let the eating -- and drinking -- begin.

From Wednesday until now, I've been caught in an orgiastic whirlwind of gluttony. During that time, rarely has my mouth been empty of food, candy, alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages, pussy, or feminine fat.

So it was to my Olympian surprise that, upon stepping on the scale just an hour ago, I was met with a familiar figure.

68.7.

If you'll excuse me, I have some more eating -- and drinking -- to do.

(I have this weird feeling I'm forgetting something.)



That's right! I left my DS paused when I started this post.

I hope the batteries are OK.