My life has effectively been turned upside down by carbs. I'm obsessed. I eat, drink and sleep carbs. I never thought I'd say it, being anti-Adkins and all, but since being diagnosed with diabetes, every food I see is automatically categorized in my brain within seconds and filed into one of two folders: Carb or Non-Carb.

Meal planning has taken on a strategy that is mind-boggling. 3-4 carbs for each meal sounds like a lot, but lemme tell ya, it ain't. And then trying to fit in protein and fats on top of that can be impossible. I'm supposed to eat a little bit of all the food groups in every meal to keep my blood sugar level, but then I find myself over-eating, and then if I cut back, I'm not getting enough carbs and my sugar drops.

Food, most of the time, is the enemy. And it doesn't take much. One small ice-cream sandwich raised my sugar to 200. Being NPO for ECT one day dropped it to 63. I've lost six pounds. But I think my hair is falling out.

And something is causing my body to tighten up every once in a while like a board. I suspect one of the pills. But I don't know which one. I don't dare stop them all and re-start them back one by one to find the culprit. Then again, it could be the rheumatoid.

And if that wasn't bad enough, I'm taking that new pill Chantix to stop smoking. You're actually encouraged to smoke for the first week or so while taking it to give it a chance to work, but OH. MY. GOD. With every inhale you get a whiff of vomit. I'm supposed to be smoking until I get to the blue pills and I'm still on the white pills, but I just finished a pack and I swear, I don't think I can smoke one more. I really do think I'd rather eat dog shit.

Okay, I'm done complaining now. I'll leave you with something funny that happened today. Spencer and I went to the Fox & Hound restaurant (sorta like a sports bar but kids are allowed, obviously). They have free pool during the week from 11-2:00, so we went, ordered some food and shot a few games. We were having a blast but our waitress was over-solicitous and kept asking how we were doing, and I mean like every five minutes: "You okay?" "You guys doing okay?" "How's everything over here?" After several "We're okay's" and "We're fine's" and "We're alright's" Spencer had had enough and said, "I'm good, but she's got gas." I nearly split my fucking spleen. The apple doesn't fall far, does it?