The Worst Plan In The World

-I want to pretend like I have something important to write about, but I most definitely do not. My daughter just walked onto the porch; my girlfriend is laying on a hammock. Birds are chirping. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The semester is mercifully over. Now what?

-Now my daughter is hula-hooping. The 1950’s are so excited.

-I’ve resolved on about a million different occasions to stop drinking soda (cola, pop, ect.). My failure rate thus far is a perfect 100 percent. I quit drinking beer, which had literally replaced water for me, but I cannot quit drinking soda. It’s a shameful, shameful addiction.

But I have hatched a plan, a remarkably stupid plan: I’m getting the words “No Soda” tattooed on my right wrist, also known as “my drinking wrist.” Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the fact of the matter is that I am fat and getting fatter. Cutting out a huge amount of calories from my diet has to help, doesn’t it?

-Before anybody proposes to save me from my stupid plan with suggestions like, “Why not diet soda?” please recognize that you are wasting your time. I’d no sooner drink diet soda than I would non-alcoholic beer. The point of these addictions is the delicious alcohol, or sugar, depending. I can’t pretend like those aren’t the things I love. Replacing one with the other doesn’t solve a thing.

-The girlfriend doesn’t agree with me on this plan, and has added another level: she is demanding I put in writing a promise to allow her to choose the coverup tattoo. She thinks I’m going to fail, so she wants to be able to punish me. But I won’t fail. I can’t. It’s literally tattooed on my body. Right?

-Speaking of Worst Plan In The World, I’m getting myself more emotionally prepared to start up the WABI Podcast, which is what I plan to call mine. What A Bad Idea Podcast, in case you’re wondering. I hope another one doesn’t already exist.