Diary of Surrender, Week 8: Dispatches from the Void of Inevitability
I have nothing left to say, but my heroes do.
I’m writing a diary about my year of giving up, although I may give up on this too. Who knows? You can read about why I’m giving up here, and the previous week of saying fuck it here. (The term “week” is used loosely).
Pro-tip: do not give yourself a year-long writing assignment that requires you to publish regularly, ideally weekly. And if you do end up doing something that dumb and ambitious, don’t make the assignment about giving up, because at some point there will be nothing left to say. At week eight of this endeavor, that’s where I find myself: no pithy insights on giving up. This shouldn’t come as a surprise. All epiphanies run out of steam at some point.
I could give you a straightforward report on my progress in giving up on being skinny, but that’s not interesting. I’m at a relatively healthy equilibrium between hikes, hot yoga classes, and mini chocolate peanut butter cups. But see? That’s boring.
And it’s fine, I guess. I recently looked at my double chin in the wrong mirror, and thought I looked like a bullfrog. I got upset, and then remembered that I had given up on love anyway, so it was okay to look like a bullfrog.
