OK, so I ate the Baby Ruth bar.
It totally blows my diet to smithereens. That chocolate and the caramel and those peanuts are probably inside me right now, duking it out with the nugat to determine which of them is going to land on my thighs and how much belly fat they can glob on.
It was just one Baby Ruth, for Pete's sake. I ate it. OK? I admit it. I ate the frickin' candy bar.
That should suck up some of the calories, that admission. But you and I both know it won't. Even as I write this in a sorry damage control effort, I can feel my butt bulging up and my ankles growing.
I've been on this latest diet for weeks now, and I've seen some results. I messaged my friend Cheryl last week - I HAVE A MIDRIFF! And it was true.
It seems like there is something perverse in me that gets nervous when I start losing and plots to stop progress. Something inside my head wants me to stay overweight.
Why is that? Why would I have a three-inch long diet bar for lunch and fried chicken for dinner? Why did I eat the Baby Ruth?
I'm going to sleep on that and let the psychoanalyst fairy sprinkle some magic dust on it and see what happens. There could be a deeply buried psychological reason for my indiscretion. Lust came into play. Sensual pleasure beckoned and set off some hidden reaction in my brain. Atoms collided. Neurons ignited. Futons formed complicated chemical reactions that led to chocolate desire.
OK. Cut the BS and admit it.
Forgive me, oh Medifast gods, for I have sinned. And I loved it.