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5 pints.

5 pints, at a beer festival.

5 pints, at a beer festival, last Saturday night.

5 pints, at a beer festival, last Saturday night, on someone else’s drinking agenda!

There is a wonderful poem by Portia Nelson, called An Autobiography in 5 short chapters.

It is one of the few poems that I return to time and time again, to try to explain to myself when I have this pathological urge to do the stuff that derails me and pushes me in the wrong direction.

In the middle of last week, I was on it, I’m heading in the right direction and going in the places that I should have been going and getting fitter and thinner and feeling better.

On Saturday night, I went out against my better judgement and ended up depressed on sunday.

I ended up eating s**t on Sunday.

I ended up not riding my bike on Sunday.

I’m not addicted to alcohol, (thank god for that) but I still can’t understand the rassion that only in my own head thinks it’s acceptable to do that on Saturday night, when I know I have too many other things to do.

The shame is terrible.

The guilt is terrible.

The depression is awful.

I tend to walk down a different street.

Blog Post Number - 2074