I miss the days when I thought I knew what I was talking about
I knew my ways were healthy and I’d defend my lifestyle of moderation and madness with holy zeal. Now? I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about and I don’t really care anymore.
So many people go to school for years to research health and nutrition and here I am trying to drown out low level anxiety with a therapeutic dose of anti-depressants with Weetos.
I could adopt a diet like a new religion but I’m a hardened old whore when it comes to promises of salvation through salads.
This morning I’ve chosen to watch Murder She Wrote over Chris Powell’s horror show that is Obese : One Year To Save My Life. I can’t watch this shit anymore. It’s too intense. Promotes the lie that happiness exists outside yourself in the form of a 10 foot glossy before/after shot hung up on a studio wall.
These shows are glitzy and indicative of the “WOW YOU!” human potential garbage championed by the likes of Oprah Winfrey. The trouble with the human potential movement is that everyone has potential and not all for good. Peter Sutcliffe had potential. Jihadi John had more than once chance at a “new you”.
I can’t be jealous of people who run fast marathons anymore because it’s down to their hard work and it has nothing to do with me and the delusion of potential. If I’m offended by what others are doing, I’m probably being a really lazy bastard and my focus is all wrong.
“Potential” is all about entitlement. Fuck your potential. I have admiration for people who just go out there and do shit and don’t post those stupid fucking quotes about lapping sheep on sofas.
Fuck your sofa too.
We’re all dying and what you’re putting into your body today is simply minimising the angle and attack of your own death spiral.
Today I’m choosing Angela Lansbury and sugar for breakfast.
Not exactly ideal is it? It could be porn and crystal meth instead I guess.