I know this isn't a personal blog, and I don't fill it with private revelations about my life, but you might possibly have noticed a hopefully very subtle shift in my behavior and apparent equilibrium of late. I began a Draconian medically-administered liquid weight-loss diet about four weeks ago. The diet is supervised, and is for people who weigh between 50 and 100 pounds above a BMI of 25; it's intended to help one return to a normal weight as a preamble to a permanent change of habits. According to conventional medical calculations—which as far as I can tell amounts to scholarship plus research plus educated guessing plus Kentucky windage—a man my age and height should take in about 2225 calories a day to maintain an ideal weight; a man my age and height would have to have been indulging in a daily average intake of about 2860 calories to maintain the degree of overweight at which I found myself when I commenced this infernal torture; and I am currently consuming between 1210 and 1360 calories a day, most of it in the form of children's juice-boxes filled with what to all appearances is chocolate milk. Which is no way to live. I have lost an average of four pounds a week, a rate which had better damn well keep up.
So if I seem a tad crankier than usual, I am. No cheese, no French bread, perish sweets, and very, very scant sashimi. It does not put a man in a good mood. Neither does being a fat ass, but the latter is easier to ignore day-to-day.
Excuse the interruption, and now back to regularly scheduled programming—