The pizza I’m not eating

Last, pathetic little slice of free pizza at work

Last, pathetic little slice of free pizza at work

If you don’t share my pathology, this post probably doesn’t make sense. After all, it’s a pathetic-looking, malformed, cheese-deprived, dried-out little slice, right? What’s the big deal about not eating that? I mean, why would anyone want to eat it in the first place?

See, that doesn’t matter. It’s free food. Carbohydrates and fat, right there for the taking. Even bad pizza would provide a burst of pleasure that would light up my brain like a carnival. All for the cost of reaching my hand down.

And that’s the big lie. The actual cost is my health and self-respect. I’ve spent the last two months stridently repeating that mantra to myself, vigilantly observing my reactions and redirecting myself when I catch that hand moving. And, wonder of wonders, it’s working. Today that pizza had very little power over me; its Siren call was so faint that I could barely hear it. I feel proud of myself, and grateful to the Muses.

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