Better Off Drunk

Chocolate and cookies will be the death of me. Fucking desert.

Before I got sober,2 1/2 years ago, I was wholly uninterested, more like unaware, of the post-meal indulgence known to many as desert. While my dining companions proposed, "If I get the double pecan cheesecake brownie a la mode, would anyone share it w/ me?" I ordered another Black & Tan or Sierra Nevada or anything decent on tap. And I never asked anyone to share with me. Get your own pint, pussies. Usually, I wouldn't really eat much either. A sliced cucumber marinated in soy sauce and sesame seeds filled me up. I could get by on a slice of pizza as lunch AND dinner. My caloric intake was all barley and hops unless I was fighting a hangover w/ a bacon, egg & cheese sandwich at 11:30am as I rolled into work a tad tardy. Beer and grease, two of the lesser respected food groups.

I put the booze down and picked up a spork. The world opened up for me. I've turned into a card-carrying member of The Clean Plate club, A.K.A kind of a fat ass. I actually dragged a friend into the Applebees in Times Square because I had a hankerin' for a hunk of brownie sundae.

Which is the greater evil? Waking up with a shiner & discovering my cheekbone is busted without a clue as to how or why I did that to my face OR justifying a Snickers jones with the following statement, "Dude, it's got peanuts. That's protein."