Keto Day 10

I promise I’ll actually discuss my diet this time, but first… that was a close one. I just Matrix-dodged the pseudoscientific writings that use the legitimate scientific study of epigenetics as a cloaking device for mysticism (I’m not gonna say his name because unpopular though this blog may be, I’d still like not to be sued). Funnily enough, I downloaded his audiobook and wrote him off as an eloquent quack, but a pretty lady Doctor of Nursing candidate recommended him to me, so I gave it another shot (I have since looked up her school, and it is for-profit… not sayin’, just sayin’, know what I’m sayin’?).

First red flag: he says he’s a neuroscientist, but he earned his “Doctor of Chiropractic from Life University in Atlanta.” Granted, he may have studied neuroscience in his postdoctoral work, but I found very little Google Scholar evidence that pointed to any peer reviewed articles, and his Wikipedia page is mysteriously nonexistent. I’ll even go so far as to say that MAYBE the things he’s saying are accurate in that I can’t directly disprove them (they operate on a lot of separate assumptions that taken individually accurately represent the current understandings of our world), but dude… You can’t just go around calling yourself a neuroscientist. It’s not cool to be misleading like that.

Who knows? Maybe he’s right, and I’m wrong, and thinking positively and imagining yourself as a doctoral candidate in neuroscience is really all you need, then you’ll change your DNA on a molecular level and collapse all potential realities into the singular reality in which you actually are a neuroscientist. Personally, I’m a fan of the more traditional route of finding the people actually doing the scientific research at reputable institutions of learning, and joining them in their efforts until I know enough to help advance the field ethically. Crazy, I know. Whatever. Maybe more people are meditating because of his books, and that’s positive. I just hope people don’t use this strategy to avoid taking actionable steps toward the future they want for themselves. It’s a decent read (gave me some great short story ideas), but I don’t think I’ll be finishing it. I have too many books to read by real neuroscientists and psychologists to entertain myself with that dude’s work for any longer than I already have.

Okay, rant over.

I hate not exercising. I’m taking my dog on long walks and running up the eight flights of stairs each time (four times today) and doing my stretches, but I have so much excess energy! Luckily my rib pain is rather noticable, so I’m pretty quickly reminded why I’m not lifting weights, but it’s frustrating. Also the left side of my rib cage is definitely at a different angle than my right side, but I’m wondering if it was always like that because I haven’t been motivated to notice that shit at any other time in my life.

My body seems to be adjusting really well to this diet. The frequent urination thing has subsided, so I’m either getting better or not drinking enough water. Not sure which it is, but I feel great. The meat-and-dairy-heavy part is hugely enjoyable, and I’m definitely more lean than I was when I started this thing. I’ve been wondering how much of that is attributable just to the fact that I’ve been very conscious of my food consumption, though. I got one of my highest fat percentages today, but it’s still only 70% and I didn’t even hit my protein goal (108.8 grams). Thank goodness I’m not exercising, amiright?! *crazy laugh*

Tonight is the Night of The Irish. Wish me luck!

A Not-So-Brief Review of A Not-So-Brief Engagement – Part II

Our first romp in the grass was literally in the grass of the local YMCA, as our drunkenness gave way to the sun rising over the San Fernando Valley – clearly we were in love. Things progressed as quickly as the 350 miles between us would allow. We spoke on the phone every day, and we made frequent trips to visit one another in our respective cities. After six months or so, we couldn’t stand to be apart, so we decided to find an apartment in a neighboring town, as her artistic sensibilities, and disdain for college towns and the shackles of higher learning in general wouldn’t allow her to be in the same town as a university.

It was our first time having our own space, and I got wrapped up her hippie fun and frolicking. Our apartment was filled with beautiful antique furniture that we coated in day glow, stacks of records and books that spilled out of every shelf, and half-finished paintings and drawings that were done in varying states of inebriation. Luckily it was in a shitty neighborhood, so nobody really minded the loud young couple next door. Except that one time.

There’s a game called the “Dude v. Fuck Game” – you watch The Big Lebowski, and each time someone says “Dude,” the Dude Team takes a shot, and each time someone says “Fuck,” the Fuck Team takes a shot. She and I decided to play by ourselves with a bottle of rum, that in all likelihood we shoplifted from the nearby grocery store. I don’t remember who was on what team, and really it doesn’t matter. This game was likely to kill us both if we kept going at the one shot pace, so it soon became half a shot, then a quarter, then just a sip.

“I have to tell you something,” she said about three quarters of the way through the movie, her voice quivering with the fear of what might come next. “I cheated on you.”

It felt like I got punched in the chest. Hard. The wind left my lungs and I made every attempt to unhear what I heard. As the air filled my lungs again, so too did the kind of anger that only youth and half a bottle of rum might allow for.

“HOW LONG AGO?!” I finally got to after a run of ranting.

“Six months, maybe? I’m not really sure. I was really drunk, and it was just the one time, and I regretted it right away, and I couldn’t tell you!”

“Damn straight you couldn’t! I never would have moved in with you! I could have avoided all of this!” The yelling wasn’t cutting it anymore. My arms started thrashing around – I threw things, I broke things, I punched things. I have a distinct memory of pushing her against the fridge, but I was blinded by rage and too much alcohol, so I don’t recall much else.

There was a pounding on the door. I could see red and blue lights flashing through the window. “Open up!” I sobered to the degree I could and opened the door. I was immediately taken onto my porch and put into handcuffs. I hadn’t hurt her in any physical way, though repeatedly calling her a “whore” probably didn’t feel great emotionally. We each explained our sides to the story.

“I know you’re hurt right now, son, but is this really something you want to go to jail for? Because that’s where this is headed.” The police officer took a kinder approach than I expected. Maybe he was used to seeing so much worse when he arrived at scenes like this, or maybe he felt pity for me because he had been in a similar situation, either way, his approach was appreciated.

I was let up, and the rest of the night was quieter. As it has the tendency to do, love conquered our negative emotions. We resolved to work it out – we knew that with grit and determination and willful ignorance we could make it work. Dammit, we were better than all those other couples, and this would just be another shining example of how true that sentiment was. Love was all that mattered, and we definitely still had that, at least. “Love is all you need” and shit, right?

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to face the fact that you’re a moron.”
– The Dude