Currently, I’m on a diet.
This means my stomach is constantly empty, like my soul.
I started watching Dexter. I really like this guy. He knows who he is and what he’s born to do, which is more than I can say for most of us. But I digress.
The combination of my low-tolerance for alcohol and my new diet is quite volatile.
The other day, I had Korean barbecue with Emily and two of our friends. Since I’m Korean and stupid, I decided to drink beer with my meat.
When I finished stuffing myself with brisket and lager, we headed back to our house for more drinks, continuing the night’s theme of smart life decisions.
After smoking half a cigarette and taking in a sip of Bourbon, I met reality. He’s a mean fucker.
He punched me right in the gut, fully knowing I had done some Ab workouts earlier in the day. What an asshole.
I went upstairs to change into something more comfortable when I approached a crossroads.
Actually, it was Morpheus. He held out both hands, palms up, as he’s apt to do. I wanted to ask him how the hell those glasses balance on his nose, but before I got a word out, he said, “You can either throw up now and pass out, or you can pass out and deal with the hangover tomorrow morning.”
“That’s an easy decision, dumbass. Don’t you know I’m on a diet?” Morpheus was never the smartest.
So I made my way to say a quick prayer to the porcelain god. I said hello again to the brisket and lager from earlier in the evening, flushed them goodbye, washed up, and collapsed on my bed.
The next morning, I woke up feeling great.
Not only was I able to eat great food and drink beer, but I didn’t feel bloated and hungover the following day.
I got up and looked in the mirror.
Yessir. The stomach is looking tighter, baby.
I guess I’m vomiting my way to six-pack abs.