Fourteen Holy Helpers won’t make a lick of difference here. I awoke craving sugar, specifically a mango margarita. It’s because I know, without doubt, that tonight I will drink at least two frozen adult Slurpee drinks to celebrate a friend’s birthday. We’re hitting up ZTejas Southwestern Grill, getting there early to have our way with an easy lay named Happy Hour. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I’ve already tried to be reasonable, searched out nutritional values for every last dish, determining to stick with the salmon (real shock + awe moment). Essentially, I’d need to exercise and sweat out my insides, pull the puke trigger a few times, while downing nothing but ice water, and I still wouldn’t be able to rope in a caloric number within a reasonable range. Because yes, I have to have two ‘ritas. Not just one. And with ‘ritas come chips, table-side guac, and then dirty talk. It’s just the way it goes.

Ideally, today I’ll squeeze on a sports bra and make the girls do a happy jig along a trail, then suck down 100cal, 15g protein shakes, especially before I leave for the celebration, so I don’t arrive ready to massacre a menu. But seriously, what’s a girl to do? There’s no way in helicopter I’ll be able to resist, and for all those who suggest I simply focus on the delightful company (which please, I always do anyway) and try to obsess less about the food + drinks, you’ve clearly never, ever, been a food addict whore, as I am. I wish I could turn tricks, fleece myself into somehow believing I was pregnant, or an alcoholic. Nah, that wouldn’t work either. Sure, I wouldn’t drink, but I’d more than make up for it by chowing for four + teen.  Fourteen.