CLXXVII. Fall’s First - 

 I’m falling into line.  

 “To hell with it,” I start telling myself everyday. Eat the god damn second slice of bread. Buy a second container of the god damn 80-calorie per cup milk instead of the 25-calorie per cup cashew milk. If you don’t do it, if you don’t gain, you best believe you’re headed toward inpatient hospitalization and over there you’re going to have to consume the chemical-laden Ensure drinks that are always on sale at the store. Over there you’re going to have to consume 2% whole milk that isn’t low-carb and high protein. 
Inpatient means gaining as quickly as possible by any means possible. That is, gain on their terms, that which is not financed by your parents. The one that doesn’t think it’s financially sound to buy 36-pounds of watermelon a week, everyday, even when it’s off-season and priced at $0.99 a pound.  

 Today is the first day of fall. My parents bought a metal-wrought Jack-O-Lantern that when hooked up to our electric line, will have burnt Amber flames erupting from its toothless smile and soulless eyes.  

 We found a metal, bronze colored Jack-o-lantern, complete with handle, in which to put treats in for the costumed children. My mom and I have a plan to sit outside on those Adirondack chairs, both of us wrapped in our red, black, and white plaid blankets, to greet the passerby and dole out not candy, but solid name-brand, hygienically wrapped chocolates, on the 31st of October. 

 The day before is Diwali, so we’ll have little lanterns lining the perimeter of our manicured lawn in addition to the aforementioned light-up pumpkin and a couple of real pumpkins we plan on picking up from a farm out on the North Fork of Long Island. 

 I’m buying those acorn squash like there is no tomorrow because tis the season. To hell with feeling immensely full after eating. The flesh inside is golden, with just enough body to not feel too starchy and yet not end up a puddled mess of fibrous pulp. The flavor is all at once sweet and nutty. And so I eat it because I leave it undressed, without salt, butter, oil, or spice and hospitalization requires it to be doused in any combination of tastes so long as it achieves high caloric status. 

 I’m seeking out sweet potatoes for the same reason. They’re in season and the bright orange innards are so sweet but not cloyingly so. The consistency lends itself to having a nice runny golden yolk running through it. The rivulets of which cut the starchiness, no salt needed. 

 I’m throwing caution to the wind by agreeing to go out to eat. I choose a place beforehand, planning out my order, because having someone do it for me means meeting scientific requirements that doesn’t lend itself to the experience of taste.  
If it weren’t up to me, my salads would be drowning in dressing, and whatever isn’t absorbed by the micro greens will just have to be sopped up by crusty bread with a spongy interior, and my beverage would be a nice tall glass of milk. And when I say nice, I mean anything but that because who in the hell would have milk with their dinner or eggs-any-style brunch? Sure as hell isn’t me. 

 I’ll have a coffee, black, oh and decaf because I have accepted the fact that  having caffeine and being underweight is probably at par with intoxication.  

 I’m not a rebel,but I am willing to fall. 

 What better time than now, today, the first day of fall?
CLXXVII. Fall’s First -

I’m falling into line.

“To hell with it,” I start telling myself everyday. Eat the god damn second slice of bread. Buy a second container of the god damn 80-calorie per cup milk instead of the 25-calorie per cup cashew milk. If you don’t do it, if you don’t gain, you best believe you’re headed toward inpatient hospitalization and over there you’re going to have to consume the chemical-laden Ensure drinks that are always on sale at the store. Over there you’re going to have to consume 2% whole milk that isn’t low-carb and high protein.
Inpatient means gaining as quickly as possible by any means possible. That is, gain on their terms, that which is not financed by your parents. The one that doesn’t think it’s financially sound to buy 36-pounds of watermelon a week, everyday, even when it’s off-season and priced at $0.99 a pound.

Today is the first day of fall. My parents bought a metal-wrought Jack-O-Lantern that when hooked up to our electric line, will have burnt Amber flames erupting from its toothless smile and soulless eyes.

We found a metal, bronze colored Jack-o-lantern, complete with handle, in which to put treats in for the costumed children. My mom and I have a plan to sit outside on those Adirondack chairs, both of us wrapped in our red, black, and white plaid blankets, to greet the passerby and dole out not candy, but solid name-brand, hygienically wrapped chocolates, on the 31st of October.

The day before is Diwali, so we’ll have little lanterns lining the perimeter of our manicured lawn in addition to the aforementioned light-up pumpkin and a couple of real pumpkins we plan on picking up from a farm out on the North Fork of Long Island.

I’m buying those acorn squash like there is no tomorrow because tis the season. To hell with feeling immensely full after eating. The flesh inside is golden, with just enough body to not feel too starchy and yet not end up a puddled mess of fibrous pulp. The flavor is all at once sweet and nutty. And so I eat it because I leave it undressed, without salt, butter, oil, or spice and hospitalization requires it to be doused in any combination of tastes so long as it achieves high caloric status.

I’m seeking out sweet potatoes for the same reason. They’re in season and the bright orange innards are so sweet but not cloyingly so. The consistency lends itself to having a nice runny golden yolk running through it. The rivulets of which cut the starchiness, no salt needed.

I’m throwing caution to the wind by agreeing to go out to eat. I choose a place beforehand, planning out my order, because having someone do it for me means meeting scientific requirements that doesn’t lend itself to the experience of taste.
If it weren’t up to me, my salads would be drowning in dressing, and whatever isn’t absorbed by the micro greens will just have to be sopped up by crusty bread with a spongy interior, and my beverage would be a nice tall glass of milk. And when I say nice, I mean anything but that because who in the hell would have milk with their dinner or eggs-any-style brunch? Sure as hell isn’t me.

I’ll have a coffee, black, oh and decaf because I have accepted the fact that having caffeine and being underweight is probably at par with intoxication.

I’m not a rebel,but I am willing to fall.

What better time than now, today, the first day of fall?