One Huge Lesson in Humility.

Egg, large—90 kcal.

Kilocal. Quant.
Breakfast
Jul 28 '18 @ 10:38 AM

Egg + pota­toes in a bowl with a quarter-bagel, spousemade.

'' 100 3
'' 90 1
Non-event
Oct 30 '17 @ 6:58 AM

Sick all day. Cer­eal for dinner. Ramen for lunch. Box of pants came. Do not fit. 50 waist. Bluesy.

'' 100 3
'' 320 1
'' 90 1
'' 200 2
Breakfast
Aug 10 '16 @ 9:04 AM
'' 60 1
'' 90 1
'' 82 2
'' 110 1
'' 32 1
Breakfast
Jul 27 '15 @ 9:00 AM
'' 46 3
'' 360 1
'' 60 1
'' 0 12
'' 90 1
'' 120
1/8
'' 16 2
Breakfast
Oct 21 '14 @ 9:38 AM

Yes­ter­day a good day. Had huge fancy lunch and wasn’t hungry at night so skipped dinner. Have a cer­tain ur­gency from bike rides. Going to try to keep that ur­gency moving. The gen­er­al mal­aise I’m feel­ing after Tom’s death is how I grieve, I’m realizing: Noth­ing con­crete as much as the basic found­a­tion of my life gets shaken out from under me and I find my­self dip­ping very low, with a sense of un­cer­tainty and instability—looking at the kids and going, how will we sur­vive in this fra­gile world, things like that. I envy the re­li­gious some­times quite a bit. It ab­so­lutely makes sense to me that human con­scious­ness would come up with re­li­gious faith as a means of or­gan­iz­ing that sense of spiral­ing chaos. Mo made me an egg sand­wich for break­fast since I didn’t have dinner. Both chil­dren woke up in bad moods and whined and cried for twenty straight minutes as we got them dressed.

'' 100 1
'' 90 2
'' 90 2
Breakfast
Aug 29 '14 @ 9:10 AM

Okay I need to get off of shame. Shame isn’t going to get me anywhere. Just re­lax­ing into it and ac­know­ledging this part of my­self will help. An ac­tu­al of­fi­cial acknowledgement: As a 40-year-old, 6‘3” man of means and talent, ac­quaint­anced to lead­ers of industry, I will, des­pite my best in­terests and the clear find­ings of cen­tur­ies of nu­tri­tion­al science, often suc­cumb to /treats/, de­li­cious treats, the more cream-filled the better, and I am also en­slaved by /snacks/, or even worse, /snax/, the more industrially-processed the better. I am in this re­gard ex­actly like just every­one else but a little more helpless.

Thinking of it in terms of ter­rible consequences, in terms of my heart ex­plod­ing or my ar­ter­ies wrest­ling in­side my body like tiny vipers, is not really productive. Be­cause I keep not dying, no mat­ter how hard I panic on the sub­way or how many shoulder twinges arrive. That is: No mat­ter how awful, shameful, vile, or grisly I am, I con­tin­ue to exist and I might as well make a slightly bet­ter job of it.

So let’s get a plan; I can plan a giant pro­ject for 100 people over a year, so maybe I can also plan a day’s meals. For lunch I am going to have two sal­mon burgers, just like I had for dinner. And I am going to have some more peas. I am going to avoid bread as I’ve had enough bread, but I might look for something a little bit filling to go with the sal­mon so that I don’t feel my anxi­ety at 3PM.

Dinner will not be takeout. It will in­volve a salad. It doesn’t NEED to in­volve any­thing else.

No mat­ter what hap­pens I will be fine. I will not die today, and even if ab­so­lutely no food were to pass through my body between now and tomorrow, aside from the anxi­ety I would ex­per­i­ence no ill effects. All of my pan­ics are about things that are constructed, things that may hap­pen in the future. But in­stead of tak­ing them ser­i­ously and plan­ning around them I am think­ing mystically, about strange forces and fate. I don’t de­serve or not de­serve a heart attack, but ill­ness and car­di­ovas­cu­lar prob­lems are the nat­ur­al con­sequence of my life­style and diet.

'' 90 2
'' 90 1
Breakfast
Jul 05 '14 @ 8:23 AM

July 4 in 2009 was the day I de­cided to start this website. I’m not back to my top weight but I’m up there again. I had an egg sand­wich this morning—a little hung over. My moth­er is try­ing to come visit and is cri­ti­ciz­ing my brother. I’m wait­ing for her call to tell her not to come.

I’m be­hind on everything and under siege. I’m going to sail through a bit and see what happens. I’m going to not panic, not despair. Her rage at the world, her sense of re­gret and despair, are the res­ults of her own actions. Maybe I’ll let her come up, maybe I won’t.

'' 90 2
'' 532
1/10
'' 90 2
Breakfast
Jun 25 '14 @ 8:58 AM
'' 90 2
'' 62 1
Breakfast
Jun 09 '14 @ 9:10 AM
'' 90 2
'' 297 1
'' 55 2
'' 98 1
Breakfast
May 24 '14 @ 11:58 AM
'' 90 2
'' 60 1
'' 90 2
Breakfast
Apr 16 '14 @ 8:30 AM
'' 360 1
'' 110 1
'' 60 1
'' 90 1
'' 300 1
Breakfast
Mar 28 '14 @ 8:30 AM
'' 360 1
'' 110 1
'' 60 1
'' 90 1
Breakfast
Mar 06 '14 @ 9:42 AM
'' 102 1
'' 90 2
'' 297 1
'' 54 1
'' 55 1
Breakfast
Feb 08 '14 @ 8:47 AM

Well today was a food disaster. Try­ing to meet a monday 8:30AM deadline.

'' 360 1
'' 60 1
'' 90 2
'' 300 1
Breakfast
Jan 23 '14 @ 7:33 AM
'' 46 2
'' 90 2
'' 90 2
'' 297 1
Breakfast
Jan 13 '14 @ 9:18 AM
'' 360 1
'' 90 1
'' 100 1
'' 0 8
'' 90 1
Breakfast
Dec 10 '13 @ 9:23 AM
'' 90 1
'' 113 1
'' 90 2
Dinner
Dec 03 '13 @ 9:14 PM

Tired. Had cer­eal and figured that was din­ner and then had a couple eggs to get some protein. Anyway, poor per­form­ance from Ford. My cog­nit­ive self is NOT ENGAGED. But tracking.

'' 64 2
'' 90 2
'' 320 1
'' 90 2
'' 75 3
'' 98 1
Breakfast
Nov 10 '13 @ 9:33 AM
'' 59 2
'' 90 2
'' 75
3/2
Dinner
Sep 25 '13 @ 8:18 PM
'' 100 1
'' 9 16
'' 96 1
'' 90
3/2
'' 300 1
'' 205 1
Breakfast
Sep 25 '13 @ 8:27 AM
'' 90 1
'' 90
3/2
'' 60 1
'' 90 1
'' 81 1
Breakfast
Sep 07 '13 @ 8:57 AM
'' 90 2
'' 532
1/5
'' 90 2
'' 30 2
Breakfast
Sep 01 '13 @ 8:45 AM

A few things. I went down to the gym yes­ter­day and will go again today (or rather, as I write this, I’ve been and did okay). I then got food pois­on­ing from lunch, mild, but spent the rest of the day pretty miserable. Also, I have been wak­ing up with stom­ach pain and as­sumed it was hunger, but it was ac­tu­ally more likely ibuprofen, which I’ve been tak­ing stead­ily with the leg pain (six a day). Ibupro­fen is the cause of pep­tic ulcers. So I did a lot of stretch­ing to relax the muscle that hurts and man­aged to sleep pretty well, with a Zantac in­stead of an ibuprofen. As a res­ult I was able to sleep through the night, which was a huge re­lief in the morning. The com­bin­a­tion of naus­ea from the ibupro­fen and the food pois­on­ing was doing a num­ber on me. So today ac­tu­ally feels a lot better.

'' 90 1
'' 60 1
'' 64
1/2
'' 90 2
'' 12 3
'' 32
1/5
Dinner
Aug 08 '13 @ 7:49 PM
'' 100 2
'' 90 1
'' 152 1
'' 205
1/2
'' 64 1
Breakfast
Jul 16 '13 @ 8:30 AM
'' 360 1
'' 60 1
'' 90 1
Breakfast
Jul 06 '13 @ 2:23 PM

Sigh. Big greasy breakfast. But I am tracking. Took the kids the park.

'' 360 1
'' 60 1
'' 200
1/2
'' 90
2/3
'' 98 1
Dinner
Jun 17 '13 @ 8:16 PM
'' 46 1
'' 90 2
'' 230 1
'' 108 3
'' 50 1
Breakfast
Jun 17 '13 @ 8:30 AM

Break­fast with my editor.

'' 90 2
'' 90 2
'' 300 1
Dinner
May 25 '13 @ 8:51 PM
'' 100 2
'' 320 1
'' 90 1
'' 152 1
'' 64 2
Breakfast
Apr 27 '13 @ 10:03 AM
'' 90
3/2
'' 45 1
'' 90 1
Dinner
Feb 08 '13 @ 8:32 PM
'' 90 2
'' 102 1
'' 90 2
'' 120 1
'' 30 1
Dinner
Dec 29 '12 @ 6:49 PM
'' 100 2
'' 80 4
'' 90 1
'' 68 3
'' 205
1/2
Breakfast
Dec 27 '12 @ 8:16 AM
'' 90 1
'' 90 2
'' 70 1
'' 90 1
Dinner
Nov 24 '12 @ 8:21 PM
'' 90 1
'' 68 5
'' 88 1
Dinner
Oct 01 '12 @ 9:33 PM

Tired, so we ordered Thai and gave up. The extra cal­or­ies are for sauce and fried tofu.

'' 100 3
'' 90 1
'' 68 4
'' 88 2
Breakfast
Jul 10 '11 @ 8:17 AM
'' 90 2
'' 130 1
'' 100 2
Dinner
Apr 20 '11 @ 8:35 PM
'' 4
1/4
'' 90 2
'' 75 2
'' 46
1/2
'' 160 1
'' 32 4
Breakfast
Mar 29 '11 @ 8:39 AM

I’ve re­turned to this zone of steady self-deception about food and alcohol, and in con­sequence once again when I’m crouched at my com­puter my gut comes out to meet my elbows. My wife too has a belly, but with a reason, given her preg­nancy with twins. I pat the top of her stom­ach when she can bear to have me near her (I am vari­ably too warm, too in­vas­ive of her space, smell strangely of vari­ous foods or beverages) and the pro­tru­sion is large, hard to the touch, and im­possible to ignore.

We were going to take a va­ca­tion in April, but in­stead we de­cided to relax by get­ting in­volved in a fail­ing real-estate deal. Every con­ver­sa­tion peppered with lies, every phone call a poke with a stick to see if they can get money out of us. People who are paid not to act in our best in­terest pre­tend­ing to act in our best interest.

So far the broker has asked for a 50% down pay­ment and a “non-refundable” $60,000 deposit, among other things; these are, best I can tell, real-estate unicorns, but still they ask, test­ing what’s pos­sible given that they have full ac­cess to my bank ac­count and know­ledge of my inner workings. Yes­ter­day my wife screamed “What the fuck?” at the broker on the phone and then later sobbed. I stayed not-quite-calm through the min­is­tries of beer and whisky, but couldn’t sleep, in­stead spend­ing two hours yelling at an ima­gin­ary re­altor while twist­ing on the couch at night (I slept there to avoid keep­ing [Wife] awake), fi­nally drift­ing off in a haze of white hatred. Every con­ver­sa­tion re­hearses anger and defeat, con­cen­trat­ing on the vic­tori­ous mo­ment where I tell the realtor, whom I sus­pect is a drunk and whom I am cer­tain is a liar, how badly he fucked everything up and what a fail­ure he is. Ex­per­i­ence shows me that this con­front­a­tion will never, ever go the way I want; there is no vic­tory to be extracted, aside from ac­tu­ally mov­ing in to the apartment, which now looks unlikely.

We ob­tained a mort­gage in four days, which means we can prob­ably do the same a year from now, and I had a nice chat yes­ter­day with a re­altor who has a rent­al down the block that would be appropriate—our needs are specific, an el­ev­at­or build­ing with two bedrooms, due to [Wife]’s con­di­tion and the like­li­hood of bedrest. I’ll go look at it on Wednesday, and if it looks okay, we can pro­cess the pa­per­work and move in on Friday. Not to where we ex­pec­ted to move, but somewhere. It’s an option, maybe.

I’ve been sur­roun­ded by a tower of pack­ing boxes for three weeks now. I must re­mind my­self over and over again that this is not a struggle; this is a challenge. Which is true. My wife has a struggle, with steady vomit­ing and nausea, and lemon-sized para­sites feast­ing on her guts. I have a struggle with sandwiches. But real-estate in Brooklyn, for people with money in the bank, is not a struggle. It’s a hope­ful challenge, something to be beaten against, but there is no risk to my health or that of others, aside from the stress, if this deal falls through. There is fear and unreliability, but we can solve those with phone calls and cash. We’ll re­cov­er from the stress, and we’ll be wiser.

So that is the challenge. This right here, this website, is the struggle.

I’m going to stop yelling at the re­altor in my head. It does nothing.

'' 45 1
'' 90 2
'' 100 1
Breakfast
May 19 '10 @ 8:31 AM

It’s 8:39AM on Wednesday, May 19, 2010. I am full of big ideas. My wife is afraid of my death. She wants me to have my cell phone when I ride loops around the park, fears me get­ting shot at the bank. Far more likely to be done in by my own ar­ter­ies right now, though. The fear of death is the fear of incompleteness, of un­fin­ished projects. So many emails to answer!

'' 100 1
'' 60 1
'' 90 2
Breakfast
Oct 25 '09 @ 8:16 AM

'' 100
7/5
'' 90 1
'' 120 1
'' 147 1
Lunch
Aug 02 '09 @ 12:59 PM
'' 90 2
'' 100 1
'' 50
1/2
'' 10 2
'' 46 1
'' 10 2
'' 130 1
'' 80 2
'' 5 6