After two mostly successful weeks, I think it might be okay to talk about it without jinxing myself. I'm on a diet. I'm dead set on taking in 1000 calories or fewer a day and am limiting myself to ten grams of fat, tops, each day. Plus I'm not allowed to eat after eight in the evening, which is sensible enough. Did I mention I've been hungry for two weeks?

It wouldn't be so bad, really, if I were - say - in Duluth, where I can surround myself with food that won't kill me at the age of thirty. But as luck would have it, I work at the junk food capital of, like, the world. Not only is my little store known for its outstanding malts (the best of which are, of course, made by yours truly) and its excellent ice cream selection, we pride ourselves on providing children with as much candy that will rot their teeth and their insides as their fifty cents or lousy dollar can allow.

And not only that. There are doughnuts. Sweet Jesus, I would let a tiger gnaw all the toes off my left foot if I could only have one fucking doughnut. Then there's Little Debbie. I swear she will rot in hell. No way, NO WAY!, did Debbie stay little by eating the devilishly delicious snacks she provides. And the worst part is that they're so bloody cheap.

Chips are also a weak point, and are there ever chips! I salivate just thinking about licking the French onionness off French onion chips. I have problems walking past the chips. Then there's other stuff. Like everything in the store. I can't have any of it.

All I ever think about is eating and what I'm going to eat when I eat next and when I'm going to eat and how much I'm going to eat and how it is no way going to be as good as a doughnut. But I think I'm doing relatively well. I'm happy with myself and how I've been exercising my will, though the results aren't...there. I suppose two weeks isn't all that long, but one of these times I'm going to bury my face in the peanut butter instead of just smelling it.