It has been 4 days since I tried this one-cup-of-rice-per-day
routine and it seems I am getting used to it. I think the trick is to not really be conscious of the regime. Lourd De Veyra will surely lash against my kind for
being “Di Tunay na Lalake” but I own a pink telecaster for god’s sake ( which I
lovingly named Areola) so I don’t think I was ever leaning to the macho stereotype.
I also have been walking. The choice to walk home every
night can be excruciating when you don’t have anyone to hold hands to, but my
trusty Experia has Ben Gibbard’s new album on it so I think I’m alright.
I’m
not sure if there will be some kind of effect that will magically turn my limp
glands into Popeye muscles but I can always reason out that it is for health reasons –
which is a real good reason, by the way.
I need to shed off these extra pounds in my belly because I
am starting to look like a human light bulb. The verb Starting is pushing it
way too much since this is old news. I just want to feel good about myself for
once.
The female of the species torture themselves with over-consumption of food when they feel bad about themselves. What they don’t know is
that guys, even if their testosterone-driven brain will never admit it, suffer
from the same insecurities. It is another version of survival of the fittest. They
want to get ahead of the pack by winning flames and dames, and they resort to aggression
and over-consumption of worldly pleasures (sex, alcohol, drugs etc.) when these
needs are not met.
Even without this critical analysis over man’s narcissistic
tendencies, I don’t think I’ll ever give up drinking. What’s the fun in that?
Though I am too open and chatty to ever need some boozing to perk up my nights,
it does wonder to social interactions especially for people who are not…well,
open and chatty.
I hope to win some damsels in distress soon and maybe the
world -- stir some reactions, explore and hopefully, without this flabby suit.
I am drinking tea right now, and thinking of sleeping off
lunch time.
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