Unlock achievement: sherbet glut

Breakfast, courtesy Patty Dee's Kitchen Griddle, was four pancakes with oleo and (corn-syrup-based) syrup. Wait, no, five, since when my back was turned, someone -- J.? -- placed an extra flapjack on my plate. Sneaky. Also a can of Coke Zero, since my feet were dragging after a restless night sleeping in a stuffy room. I've learned that feng shui is a barrowful of bunk, so there's probably no solution to the stuffiness problem.

Lunch was a bucketful (alright, a take-out-container-from-Olive-Garden-ful) of Sunday's leftovers: one-and-a-quarter chicken breasts, a single strip of grilled sirloin [For efficiency's sake, let's call that "grilloin"? - Ed.], and two cups or so of spicy Zatarain's rice mix. Also several mugfuls of water, essential for washing down the aforementioned rice.

Dinner was a spontaneous stop into the Beantown Pub, where we'd previously enjoyed an evening with raucous compatriot Ryne H. I had a turkey reuben sandwich of sorts, with turkey breast, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut, on a bulky roll. Also a nice cauliflower side, and I had one bite of my sad-looking pickle. Sad.

We went to a movie -- X-Men: First Class, a tepid and overly-expository affair made a little prettier by a gleefully serious performance by Michael Fassbender as Magneto -- and then we went home. I make a note of this only to point out that we did not glut ourselves on concessions, which is, by any account, an improvement to our record.

At home, though, the gnawing sensation of hunger began to nibble in J.'s trunk. I hopped out of bed to reconnoiter the freezer, and brought back a good kill: half a half-gallon carton of black raspberry sherbet. She was put off by the ice crystals which had formed inside, though, so set it aside on the nightstand. Where I found it at 3 in the morning when I couldn't sleep.

So ad to my kill count for the day, about three-and-a-half servings of sherbet. The disappointment I feel is matched in intensity and depth by the distress of my GI tract.

If it hurts, don't do it

No better reason to restart this exercise in self-observation, than this article in the Atlantic, on the secretly piggedly natures of foodies. Here's B.R. Myers quoting Todd Kliman from one of the Best Food Writing anthology:

I watched tears streak down a friend’s face as he popped expertly cleavered bites of chicken into his mouth … He was red-eyed and breathing fast. “It hurts, it hurts, but it’s so good, but it hurts, and I can’t stop eating!” He slammed a fist down on the table. The beer in his glass sloshed over the sides. “Jesus Christ, I’ve got to stop!” 

Back to a more disciplined habit of consumption with me. We'll start with lunch.