Well, last nights party was a smash, I think… To be honest I can clearly remember only the beginning. The last thing I can recall before the rest is shrouded in a carb and dairy induced haze was heading off with that sexy little glass of milk. I woke this morning in a tangle of sheets, stumbled out of bed bleary eyed (and honestly a bit bloated) and turned on the light in the kitchen only to be confronted with the horror from the nights debauchery. On the crumb covered counter was a griddle covered in congealed butter that reflected the light in a dirty rainbow reminiscent of an oil slick. The trash was over flowing with the little paper separators that are designed to keep your cheese in isolation in the package so that you can be assured of their purity. The refrigerator was hanging open, its wan light a sorry counterpoint to my sensitive sleep filled eyes. The sink was filled with its own horrors – bowls with a rim of tomato soup coagulated like blood on the shoes of a CSI tech, paper plates with the now indelible mark of the blade I used to savagely cut my grilled cheese, glasses with a coating of milk on the bottom that had dried like the paint at the bottom of a can left in the sun. The Coup de Grace, the knife I vaguely remembered wielding in my best impression of Jason from the horror series Halloween. It still had a hunk of salami on its tip that drew the eye and served as judge, juror and executioner. Just when I thought I was beaten as low as I could be by the debauchery of the night before I noticed my cat over by the stove with his back to me. I cautiously approached him to see what he was so intent on. He slowly turned his head and looked back at me with feral eyes like those of Church, the cat that returned from death in The Pet Cemetery. Not heading the signs I continued forward to satisfy my curiosity and was confronted with irrefutable proof of my crime. There on the counter where my wife bakes cookies for our children, where many a family meal has been made with love, where my daughter washes her hands after making the numerous objects of affection that adorn my office and where my sins lay under the harsh light of the new day on which my cat was gnawing on, daring me to try and stop him. It was the skeletal remains of the final grilled cheese wedge that escaped my carnivorous rampage only to serve as evidence that I need to make a change and that if I continue down the path I am on, I face the real possibility that one day I could find myself on a lifetime channel show about how America is eating its way into an early grave and how obesity is becoming the new norm. I take this all in and let it strengthen my resolve that starting Monday I embark on a journey of change and self discovery. But until then I am still the weak man with an obsession and a countdown. Only 3 more days to enjoy my old life. Armed with that knowledge I vow not to go without a fight. I will take these last 3 days to prepare myself while sewing my few remaining wild oats. Though it sicken me to do so, I WILL eat pasta one last time. I WILL go to Starbucks this morning and buy my last large iced coffee and I WILL have at least one doughnut washed down with milk so cold it threatens to shatter my teeth. Then I will say goodbye to the me of today and embrace the me of tomorrow.