Surreal Night at the Plaza

For the past few months, I've been going to Late Night at the Plaza, a live talk/variety show that is, naturally, at the Plaza on Wednesday nights. It's pretty good and a fun evening for your minimum $5 donation.

This week the musical guests were Benevolent Like Quietus. Not my cup of tea, but they seemed talented for their genre.

The hosts did their bits about Canadian news and sports, and they were entertaining. Then it got downright weird in a way I hadn't expected.

• The weatherman was a video short of a guy in a cardboard box.
  
• The comedians were some performance art piece by a pair of guys in morph suits slapping each other with paint and telling "jokes" that were all non-sequiturs.
  
• There were a number of video promos for assorted Storyhive shorts. I've no clue what the end results are going to be (Literally. I was convinced one of them was going to be about oral sex, but reading the synopsis online just now, it seems to be a retro horror).
  
• Last year's Storyhive winner was The Society of Birdwatchers. I was pretty sure this was going to serial killer land, but it was really just birdwatchers who needed to go watch some birds.

I mostly just sat their watching, while mentally going What The Fuck?

It ended on a more upbeat note - They have a competition between two audience members for prizes (brewery tour and Hitmen tickets this week) and this week was really good. They had to get into a homemade hurricane booth with hands covered in honey and grab Monopoly money.

Come to think of it, that was pretty surreal too.

Anyway, it's starting to sound like I'm damning it with faint praise, but I really do think it's a decent 90 minutes and I'm baffled that I can't get others to go with me. Aside from my personality that is. Oh, that and everyone I know has early morning jobs and can't stay out until midnight on a week night. Another benefit of flex time.

But the surreality wasn't over. As I left the theatre, one of the creators spoke to me.

"Thanks for coming"
"You're welcome."
"And thanks for all your support!"

By this point, a combination of oh-god-a-pretty-stranger-is-talking-to-me and an urge to get home to pee was conspiring to make me want to leave, so I basically brushed off the last statement. I mean, didn't the whole audience support it with their donations. I figured she'd say this to everyone, and I was just one of the first ones to the lobby.

"James?"

Well that stopped me in my tracks. I was pretty sure I didn't know this woman. If you know me, you know that these sorts of things always send me into a panic.

"Um. Yes?"
"We were supposed to thank you for all your support during the end acknowledgements."
"Whatever for?"
"You're our biggest supporter on Facebook."
"Good grief, all I've ever done was post a few photos."

Anyway, at this point the combination of social anxiety and full bladder forced me to retreat. I hope I didn't seem too creepy to the young lady. I didn't mean to run out so rudely. Anyway, you should check the show out. By the way, they're playing on my birthday, and I'd kind of like to have a crowd there for that, hint hint. Putting me on the spot won't be appreciated though.

Oh, one last thing, go vote for some stories at Storyhive. The ones the show was promoting (because assorted Late Night creators were proposing them) were:

• I Love You, Johnny.
  
• I Wake Myself Up.
  
• Poolside.

You get five votes, so you can spread them around beyond these three.

Fat. Again.

I haven't been to Weight Watchers in months - my last weigh-in was on August 20th. Today I finally broke down and went. Mostly this is because I've been journalling off and on due to my 100 days of adulting challenge. Time to go the next step and actually start tracking things, right?

Except I knew that it was going to be bad. I have a scale. Even without a scale I knew things were bad. I feel awful all the time. None of my clothes fit me, so I ended up buying a bunch of new clothes that were all bigger. I'm starting to get medical problems due to my weight - my blood pressure is too high and I'm on anti-cholesterol pills. My joints are at the point where the one exercise I enjoy, I can't actually do, which reinforces the problem. Hell, I can't even suck in my gut anymore.

So I knew it was bad. I figured I was somewhere around 260. 260 is way way too high. Turns out I was wrong. I'm 267.

Here are some reference weights.

205. Goal Weight according to WW and medical science.
     
220. Weight at which women are willing to touch me. I'd be fucking ecstatic to be at 220, even though it's technically still overweight.
     
247. Weight at which the BMI tips me from being overweight to obese. Anybody who decides the most helpful thing they can do is be skeptical about the BMI will have their comments removed.
     
250. Weight at which I start thinking I'm a fucking monster.
     
273. Highest weight I've ever been.
     
275. The point where I might as well just eat a bullet.

So let's recap. At 267 I am currently closer to eat a bullet than I am to merely being a fucking monster.

I am so goddamn tired of this. I'm tired of being disgusted every time I look in a mirror. I'm tired of having a body that won't do what I want it to. I'm tired of feeling like I'm trapped on a speeding train to the living hell my father endured his last years. I'm tired of a life defined by crushing loneliness punctuated with momentary distractions that keep me going.

I am so unbelievably angry at myself for this. And I'm frustrated over how helpless I am to do anything about this. About the weight. About the myriad ways my weight has ruined my life. About my utter inability to lose weight, despite having all the tools at hand.

Well, I could double, triple, quadruple the length of this post, simply by outlining everything I hate about being an obese monster, but I think you all get the picture. Guess I'd better get back on that fucking wagon, since writing isn't going to lose me any weight.