Diets. Sucky.

There's a reason I've never been on a diet - that is until my ultra skinny BF (my people) somehow managed to coerce me into Cleansing Whatever Organ It Is That Makes Gall Stones Detoxification (Sick) (Effing) Diet. And the reason is simple: Diets suck. Huge anus.

I don't think I need to diet. Sure, there's a little extra post-Christmas-demise-of-post-break-up-anorexia padding that could be shed. But I'm okay with it. I've never had to give up fat/meat/liquor/sugar in tea/chocolate/bread/potatoes/fun to do it. I've always relied on the rhythmical cycle of heartbreak to keep me in shape.

But when The BF, my people (skinny as a Monday is long) told me that this particular diet would ensure decreased severity in hangovers, I signed up within two shakes of a dog's lipstick.

And now I'm fed the eff up.

I have to drink a litre of apple juice a day. No mean feat, I hear you say. Try it. It's like having constant cotton mouth.

And I have to drink olive oil and lemon juice in the mornings. Which is not the worst part. True, the coating of tongue, teeth and cheeks in oil is fairly revolting. But the cutting out of kiff food is far more of a challenge.

I'm certainly not looking forward to the Epsom Salts. At all.

Tonight we're eating brown rice and butter beans. Without the butter, of course. And I ordinarily wouldn't mind a meal like this. But today I really effing mind. With all of my human merely being.

All I want is warm white bread, straight from the oven, slathered in butter. Chased down by a robust red. Only because I'm not allowed it.

Bugger.