yo yo yo

Semi-major, life-changing surgery on my vocal chords on Friday. Organised it in less than a week, somehow, and only broke my phone once in the mean time (new high score). La vie est étrange, pourtant belle.

a warning, for everyone involved.

Just for fun I’m having more depressive episodes again.

“Let’s try getting fat and being miserable for a while, that was great last time!” I said to myself. “Sure, we’ll still be on those lovely pills that take most of the edge off – so not as many suicidal ideations and/or dangerous downward spirals of anxiety this time – but we can still enjoy the crippling sensation of life becoming one long, joyless funeral dirge! It’ll just be like old times!”

I couldn’t fault my own logic, apparently, so here we are. I’ll let you know how it goes.

a descent into madness, told in pictures.


End of May-ish. I have bought a bike. It isn’t expensive and it isn’t perfect but I bought it and it is mine. I promise myself I won’t become one of those cyclist twats.


Mid August-ish. I have become one of those cyclist twats. I have added bar-ends for extra hand positions and as a result I never really ride with my hands on the grips again. The bike has gained a name: Diable. It is french for devil, because I am an insufferable know-it-all.


Late August. Safety features that are nicer in theory than practice have begun to melt away. Shimano SPD pedals have been installed, to match my Shimano SPD cycling shoes. I have begun undertaking long rides on the weekends, for ‘fun’.


End of October. Only safety features mandated by law remain. I have installed a new saddle and bottle cages. The bike has long-since had more money spent on it than it cost to buy it. Regrets? None. Madness? Palpable. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper, and then maybe a little chime from a bell.

Future uncertain. An increase in twatification is likely. May god have mercy on us all.

some bullshit title

I hate dieting. I hate dieting more than I hate most things, and I hate most things quite a lot, so like, do the math. Dieting is shit, warmed up. Dieting is depriving yourself of all things in the world that are great and wonderful for reasons that could be (and should be) described as spurious at best. And yet. And yet.

I’ve unofficially officially began dieting again. Not in the same way, of course, I do not have any clever apps to help me anymore, and I’m not following any special rules that will make my life a living hell (carbs are delicious, protein is hard to come by as a vegetarian, paleo is stupid, calorie counting sucks all the joy from the world) I’m just like…trying to eat better. In little ways. Ways you may find surprising, especially coming from the kind of woman who moves her gargantuan arse around by bicycle 99% of the time. Ways like – and stick with me on this – not ordering pizza four nights a week.

I know. I know. How can you even call that living? I don’t know, but fuck it I’m gonna try. Also it might save me money, so I guess that’s good also, but honestly the main appeal is that I won’t be shovelling a disc of cheese and sauce into my mouth hole quite so often and, in doing so, may even come to enjoy pizza again, like I used to, before the crushing weight of apathy drove the desire to cook out of my enfeebled bones. And I mean, that’s the main reason my diet has become so poor – I just don’t care to cook for myself. I’m cooking for one (1) person, and when that is the case it is honestly fucking difficult to motivate yourself to greatness for each and every meal. Increasingly, for a long while there, it became incredibly difficult to motivate myself to even okay-ness, and so I began to lean heavily on Delivery Hero instead. Then I got fat again, but also simultaneously fitter, because of the bike.

These are facts. Nobody said they had to make sense.

So yeah, less ordering in, less shit food in like…general. No potato chips for breakfast, no hot chips with spoonfuls of gravy for lunch. Things must change. Not just my body, but my wallet, demands it. I cannot afford to eat the way I like to eat, and that is as good a reason as any to eat better than I am currently eating. Hopefully, combining this effort with the fact I cycle like, 50 kilometres or more a week will begin to have a tangible effect on my belly soonisher rather than laterisher but I know that’s know how this shit works. Weight sloughs off at it’s own special pace, and cares very little for human desires. What if there is a worldwide famine tomorrow? it says. What then? It can take a great many months to convince it that this will not be the case. I will persevere.

vache de merde

My life has settled into a kind of lazy routine now. I work, I practice french, I obsess over my bike. I ride most days and feel wretched when I don’t, mainly because all the riding is the only bulwark I have against all the eating. Did you know Nutella is fucking delicious? I had forgotten, and now I wish I never remembered, because Nutella is fucking delicious and I can eat that stuff straight out of the jar if I have to. Who needs bread? Bread is just an impediment to noms, and any impediment to noms is an impediment I will not stand for. Spoon the Nutella into my mouth hole directly so that I may know the true sensation of pleasure. Anything else is ancillary.

My bike has transformed over the few short months I’ve owned it. It is no longer stock, I have made sure of that, and it has taken on a sinister edge. I call her Diable, which is french for devil (of course) because she has horns and she is black and sleek where she is not shiny and chromed and she can move very quickly when I need her to. At one point I was haemorrhaging money at my local bike store, a habit I had to stop to save my own financial future, and yet I still can’t stop myself from daydreaming about paint jobs and chemicals and clothing and new wheels. I spent a frustrating afternoon re-tensioning the brakes one day and it was a learning experience and also the brakes have been kind of too soft ever since.

La Diable est dangereux, et doit être respecté.

That’s all. I just wanted to gush about my bike, and food.

© 2015 Molly Speechley