Okay, I’m sitting in a cafe, drinking a pot of French Press that I pressed myself. Heh. And I’m thinking, a pot of coffee for dinner? Hmm. Okay, it does wonders for the diet and the late night surfing for opportunities (can you say, It’s 3am – why am I still awake?), but there’s something just not sticky enough about it. The last couple of weeks my diet’s been in a kind of limbo…I’ve eaten more and the pound-offage has stopped, but I haven’t eaten enough to reverse the process. Even the pizza slice I had in the wee hours during my fictive fugue didn’t seem to push the boundaries that far. So I’ve been in a holding pattern, and probably will be until after I find another job. I’m just not in the mood for total, responsible, kick-butt deprivation right now. So I’m NOT going to beat myself up over it. Disappointed. Yeah, of course, but not in a self-deprecating way – if I was, I’d do that binging at Tartine’s I warned you about (okay, I did have a morning bun there this weekend and almost died from pleasure, but that’s another obsession for a day when I’m feeling so saturated with myself that I can talk about another of my failures without absorbing it. Heh.). So it’s coffee tonight. Good coffee. More expensive than I should be spending with the amazing, shrinking bank account staring me between the eyes, but you know, it’s cheaper than a true dinner. So I imbibe in the good stuff. And squelch the internal conscientious objector.