ACID HOUSE – not the fun kind.

Acid reflux is legit worse than having crabs, thrush, toothache and I'll go as far to say, aids.

So I've mentioned previously my newly contracted intolerance to 'gluten' – I hyphenate this as I'm still not 100% convinced at its legitimacy.

Anyway, I've been suffering on the regs now with all sorts of fuckin aches and pains. And guess what, it's not just fuckin gluten that's triggering it.

Oh ace. So what? I'm now intolerant to seemingly anything with any taste or flavour.

My long standing / suffering friend (holly) we'll call her that because that is her name. She asked me 'what happens if you can't ever eat again properly, will you keep losing weight until you…' she paused realising the only option was that I would disappear into thin air.

It raised a valid point. If this farce continues and my body won't allow me to eat anything bar lettuce and grilled chicken, will I continue to lose weight until I look like Mac of the 80s fame – Mac and Me?

Is this a potench sitch that I need to prepare for? Like, it's cool if so. I just need to prepare my mind and wardrobe to flex some Gollum chic init.

I guess that's one caveat of concern but back to the matter in hand.

ACID. Not the fun kind you buy from the Trippy Hippy when you're 17 and end up in hospital tripping your tits off thinking you've turned into a Percy Pig thanks to your baby pink pigtailed hair.

Acid reflux. Wah wah waaaaaaah.

I've spoken to my GP and dietician several times now and they've confirmed I was taken off lansoprazole far too soon. Post op from the Gastric Sleeve surgery they recommend you take this for a year following the operation.

Oh sweet Dr Fernandez. The fuckin Bain of my existence only prescribed me a second month of the mediation as 'that's all that I will require'

Thanks, dick head.

I wish I could grab her face with my bear hands and transmit the pain from my abdomen into her face for 10 whole second and then, only then will she give a shit about my medial complaints. SHE IS A BEAST.

Okay maybe not quite Harold Shipman but she's got that sordid edge of the misery in her locker man. Trust me.

Anyways. I won't complain too much. My recovery so far has been textbook man. My life is totally normal. I feel ace. I weigh less. Yes, okay so I can't eat without severe pain 8 out of 10 times but HEY. You can't have everything can you?

Also, today I'm wearing dungarees from ASOS.

NOT ASOS CURVE. Just standard ASOS. Why, because look.

Today's weigh in figure. Not bad going for someone who loves food more than life itself.

Mmmmmmm food. I miss you old friend.

I AM ALEX MACK.

Since the 21st April 2017 I have now lost 82.6lbs and I look like a deflating water balloon.

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That’s fine. FINE. But like, when this belly of joy finally fuck off? ‘It’s been 3 months HAVE PATIENCE LILLI’. No. I shall not.

I’m morphing into a modern day Alex Mack. SOS.

Too dramatic?

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I’ve decided to eat no more, no less than 800 calories a day for the rest of my life. Is this achievable?

I fear not as I cast my eyes down to my turmeric stained fingers from fishing out a piece of Chicken from Leigh’s curry last night after a bottle of wine. Oops.

Don’t judge me, it was Thursday. And everyone knows that Thursday is the new Friday. AND I’m not going to drink tonight AND I’m already over explaining myself through the guilt of LOVING BOOZE SO MUCH.

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I have so much guilt over drinking booze again 3 months down the line. I imagine my fat little liver bathing in a swamp of Pinot Grigio wearing a skin tight Tankini like a fat kid by the poolside in Benidorm covered in Ice Cream.

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Oh liver, what doth become of me?

I tried to redeem myself this morning by wearing my tropical swimming cozzie under my work threads. How can I not go to the gym / swim straight from work if I’m already dressed for the occasion. FOOL PROOF G.

Little do my work colleagues know (who think I’m super dedicated to the gym)  that I’m only wearing this flamboyant M&S cozzie to work because it was easier than finding knickers and a bra this morning amidst my white wine hangover daze.

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On the subject of brazier’s I’ve road tested out my new Shock Absorber Gym Bra thing and FUCK IN HELL its pure magic man.

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Like, my tits are almost protruding out of my back it straps them in so hard. Brilliant.

It’s amazing how much more energy I have to focus on exercise when I’m not contending with the ‘Mitchell Brothers’ scrapping away in my bap hammock.

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I’ve never experienced life with small breasts before. Not since I was like, 3.

Anyone with big boobs will agree that the minute you whip your bra off after a long day you can’t help but stand, belly out, head back jiggling your boobs in your hands for a good 5 minutes before you acknowledge how weird the situation has become and you put a T Shirt on before the neighbours in the flat facing call the police.

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So strapping them down to make life somewhat easier has become a real treat. I feel like this is the female version of ‘tucking’

I shall just leave you with this mental image. You’re welks yo.

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Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. Fuck’sake

It happened. The inevitable.

Lathering up my hair in the shower this morning I felt my fingers tangle as I massaged my succulent swede.

Inspecting my soapy paws I could clearly see the hair, my hair, wrapped around my fingers like fucking Zoodles.

I was expecting it, I literally wrote about it only last week but there is a whole world of difference between preempting and reality. Now, it’s a reality. The bald Eagle hath taken flight.

I dried my hair delicately hoping my follicles wouldn’t noticed and would stay put embedded in my crown. That’s not how it works, I know. But FUCK man. Urgh

I’m not going to harp on about it today, NO. Its inevitable right? Another day on another week I’ll not be so blazay about the grim situation but today, well, who the fuck gives a shit. Queue Beyoncé – Independent Woman. QUESTION…

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I’ve got bigger fish to fry today, more pressing matters about this whole weight loss malarkey like at what point can I buy new tits?

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Legit question. It’s not that I need them RIGHT NOW but i’d kinda like to know the score as to when new tits will be required.

For instance, if one was to purchase a new rack in lets say, 2 months that being only 5 months post op, would one’s brand new Babylons get totally mash up in the pilgrimage to a lighter life?

Am I getting ahead of myself? I’ve never been one for patience, the long game. I want everything done yesterday and I kinda feel like if my hair is going to fall out then I should at least eradicate the worry of shit tits but maybe I’m being ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time.

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Failing buying new boobs prematurely how about exercise? I’m sure there has to be some legit work out maneuvers out there especially designed to turn your udders into rock hard buns of steel?

So far my gym efforts leave me more of a puddled mess as opposed to a stone goddess of mega tits. Woe is fucking me bro.

SEND HELP!

 

Witness The Poor Fitness. One Hope One Quest.

I went running this week. Me. Yes. I.Went.Running

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I’d like to say this has become a standard part of my daily routine but NO.

3 reasons why:-

1 – I can’t run. It’s hard. It’s so tiring. I’m so unfit. I’ll die. I’m dead.

2- My tits are too big. Sports Bras are NEVER to be underestimated. I have a new found respect or every woman, ANY woman who can run and not die. I’ve done my research and will now purchase the most supportive straight jacket’esk Shock Absorber Sports Bra that has ever existed.

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3 – I bought the wrong size running pants. This seems like a silly thing to do, right? See, I’ve always sized up my entire life, bought a bigger size to ensure I’m not bulging out or busting at the seams. I need to stop doing this. Get measured. Mentally accept that I can and need to wear smaller sizes because that’s what my body is now, smaller. It’s hard to get my head round. Do you know what happens when you run with pants that are too big? They fall down. A lot.

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Picture a first time runner in the blistering heat with her tits flying around her head and pants round her knees. That was me. It was not cool.

Aside from that I did actually enjoy it. I could feel the burn. Literally. My thighs were fucked for 3 days later. I see runners now along the canal and give them the secret nod. You know the nod? It’s what we pro runners give each other to be like ‘Yo, cool run bro’

They still don’t seem to give me the nod back yet though. Maybe it takes more than 5 x 1 minute stints? Hmmmm.

Now as we will all be aware this week has been hotter than the fiery pits of hell. Hotter than Tom Hardy smothered in Foie Gras with an Apricot Jus and a pinch of black pepper. Jesus man I’m salivating.

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I usually hate summer. I still kind of do but for very different reasons this year.

I live in London and have to travel from East to West on the Central Line twice a day so my life is always going to be somewhat Les Miserables until the day I win the lottery and that shit commute can bounce.

The Central Line for those that don’t know is the most intense form of social torture one person can endure so you can imagine there’s a lot of sweat knocking about. A lot of body odour. A lot of, how shall we say, scent. Vile

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I also partake in this sweating shindig. Its 154862545932 degrees. Why would I not? But I do feel a certain change in my sweat patterns. I get hot, I chill and I cool down. This sounds like a standard format for sweating I know. But this is new to me.

I used to sweat, get worked up about being the hottest person alive, panic everyone would notice I was the hottest person alive, get hotter, then hotter, then die, never stop sweating, lose my breath, have an asthma attack then eventually cool down.

As of today I have lost 4st and 10lbs. That has made a HUGE difference to the smallest of things. Health was always my main objective and it’s reassures me every day of my decision when little things like that make a difference.

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The Running Man part deux will take place with week. Pray for Lilli B yo.

As Shania Once Said. ‘Man, I feel Like A Fuckin Fat CheeseBurger’ Da Da Dadada Da!

I spoke too soon. Double chin dilemma is the devil.

Why do I feel like my belly is getting smaller yet my face is getting fatter?

1 of 2 things has happened to me.

1 – The utopia of seeing my double chin disappear has now subsided leaving me back to square one with what’s medically known as ‘Fat Eyes’.

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Fat Eye is a common ailment found in 1 in every 1 person. You look at yourself in the mirror and your brain box defaults to the Negative Nancy that lives within you. Negative Nancy whispers to you ‘So what if you have lost over 4 stone, your face is getting fatter by the minute’

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Nancy is a cunt. Nancy fuels the Fat Eye.

2 – My face is actually getting fatter.

Is this possible? Has my body found new ways to disperse calories?

MINDBOX – ‘Don’t send those calories to her belly you fool, she’s on a diet. Throw it on her face, she has room for a few lbs’

It’s probably no coincidence I’m feeling like a Pig in blanket, it’s my first vagina blood bath since the operation. WELCOME SWEET AGONY.

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I’m craving sugar. I’m craving a bit of Chocolate, Caramel and or Gnocchi. Okay, that’s not quite a sugar fix but I fuckin love roasted Gnocchi with Parmesan.

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I’ve tried to scratch the itch with alternatives. SEE BELOW FOR BULLSHIT RESULTS OF BULLSHIT ALTERNATIVES.

SUGAR Snap Peas – BULLSHIT

SWEETcorn – BULLSHIT

BUTTERnut Squash – BULLSHIT.

What others foods lure you in to a false sense of security? Cock Coup? Fish Assholes? (That potentially is legit assholes) Different Kettle of fish but you get my point.

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1 final theory to explain Today’s potential body dysmorphic meltdown.

If it’s not my period making me swell like a tampon in bowl of hell blood, if it’s not calories collecting in my chin(s) the only other explanation is the reverse Beetlejuice syndrome. Viable?

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I’m holding off on my weekly weigh in until Aunt Flo has packed her bags and fucked right off for another month or so. By then this bloated, constipated belly of hormonal hell might have subsided and reward me another lb or so off my weight loss. Tactics man. Tactics.

Wish me luck.

 

 

Chins Up, It’s All Gravy Baby

3 major things have happened this week.

1 – I’ve shrunken into AND grown out of one of my ‘thinspiration’ skirts in what seems like the space of a week.

2 – I’ve lost another stone + 1 extra lb since my last weigh in on the 12th of May.

3 – I only went and joined the fuckin gym. YAS KWEEN.

All of the above are of course wonderfully ace and I am elated to be seeing such results but by the end of this month I will literally be dressing in bin bags unless I stock up rapid on threads as most of my clothes are edging from ‘casually oversized ‘ to straight up 90’s Hip Hop vibes. A look I’m confident I cannot pull off.

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I’ve set up somewhat of a rotator system. Buy clothes – wear 3 weeks – sell clothes – buy new clothes. This is working well man. I can’t replenish my whole wardrobe when weeks after purchasing I look like a deflated Sea Urchin from The Little Mermaid in my new garms. Fuck that bro.

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The gym has been an unexpected delight to me. I’ve always asserted myself as a firm believer in the bold statement ‘ALL GYM’RATS ARE TWATS’ but that’s not the case. I feared the scathing looks of ‘what is SHE doing in here’, the snarky comments of… I have no idea what I even thought these ‘Gym Rat’s’ would say. I just knew I detested the place and all it’s members would no doubt be wankers.

Me, generalise, noooo. Urgh. I’m a twat.

I am a total convert. I fuckin love that fact the gym, well, my gym is such an eclectic mix of fat old women, chubby new mums, ripped to fuck Stedhead’s with bodies like bubble wrap. I’m learning to buzz hard off them all.

I’ve even started taking Gym Classes. Okay, I joined 1. And the instructor didn’t actually turn up. But fuck it, I joined, right?

As I lose weight and gain confidence I’m realising the confidence is nothing to do with the size or shape of my body. Without getting all deep in yo’ass (that’s a saying, right?) I now know the confidence comes from within. I know, I know… ‘Shut the fuck up Lilli’ but seriously man, its confidence in yourself that you can actually do this. You’re not unfixable. You can do 3 more minutes on that fuckin treadmill.

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As for losing the weight, my once super tight muscular calves are now soft and podgy like high quality goose down pillows. My fat butcher’s arms and now flabby butcher’s arms and my boobs have definitely started to shrink. Leigh is monitoring them on the regular and is not shy of telling me I will soon have ‘Nana Tits’. I tell him I don’t mind this. I can buy new ones. HUZZAR. Lilli 1 – Leigh 0

 

Desperately Seeking Stella

I tried booze for the first time in 7.2 weeks.

I had no intention of doing so until my dietitian session last week, turns out everyone in my post fatty crew admitted to having a few ‘cheeky’ bevvies on week 2.

I was straight edge man. And it felt so very dark.

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That night I sent Leigh to the shop to get me a sick bottle of Riesling as I’d been craving this since our Berlin jaunt earlier this year.

Guess what he came back with?

Blue Fuckin Nun. Okay so yes, technically this is a Riesling, technically. But the last time I drank Blue Nun was at G ’Nan’s kitchen table with Sunday Dinner with I was 12.

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God bless G’Nan for always keeping my glassed topped up even as a nipper.

Old school as fuck man.

It tasted decent though, just the mental recognition I was drinking booze was enough to settle my misery. I had approximately 5 sips of this shit before my face flushed red like the colour of Mars. Was I pissed? Was I having a reaction? Was I due on?

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I went back to my water. My safe place.

Leigh’s family were visiting this weekend so to join in the famalam camaraderie I decided to treat myself to a plush bottle of plonk from good ole’ Marks & Sparks.

3 sips this time. It tasted like shit.

My dietitian warned me my taste buds would change, things would taste different. Not always with nice results.

Had this happened to me?

So I CAN’T drink beer because of the fizz, I get this, it’s a no go area. My stomach will burst out my arse hole. Fair play.

But what if all wine in the world now tastes like dog shit? Do I just endure it for the sake of having 3 sips of booze?

I’ve always loved the taste of alcohol 😦 WEEP

I don’t want this pleasure to be taken away from my mouth box. What will become of me?

Kate Moss one said ……….

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Well, Kate. YOU ARE WRONG. Camden Hells tastes better than being skinny. So does Rum, Port and Stella to name a few.

Kate’s a cunt.

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I shouldn’t panic as this stage, should I?

I’ll try a few more alternatives. Worst case scenario is I live the rest of my life with Blue Nun as my tipple and try and make it my ‘quirk’.. that will never work.

Urgh. This is all Kate’s fault.

PS … I got new hair.

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