I’m staring into my dorm room mirror with my shirt off listening to “Karma Police.” Thom Yorke is right, as always. I lost myself for a minute there. Halloween night and the last two months have been a little extreme, even for me. Thanksgiving break is around the corner and I’m going to meet Grace’s family for the first time. Grace is an arts major, but she minors in acts of service by dating gangly, hairy, Transylvanian misfits like me.

I flex my biceps in the mirror, noticing only the cruel stretch marks that the gods cursed me with. At 6’3″ I am a scrawny longneck, nothing like my comic book heroes. I’ve been doing extra split lifting sessions at the Rutgers College Avenue gym, but they’re not helping. Neither are the midnight deliveries of supreme pizzas—and garlic breadsticks—with buttery dipping sauce. I hate ordering junk food, but I can’t stop. Why can’t I stop? I assume it is my weak willpower.

I do my best decision-making in the mirror. Being at the bottom of a pendulum swing is where I come alive. Eating a shitty greasy meal is a reason to eat healthy the next time. Screwing up is a welcome, distracting rasion d’etre. A mission, a purpose—it staves off contentment, boredom, and death. You can tell me to have a nice day. That’s easy to ignore because it’s fake. But tell me to have a regular day? I will freak the F out. That’s my Sisyphean mountain, my impossible challenge, my worst nightmare.

It’s time to fix this battle myself again with my mom’s copy of Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution. She is trying to manage her diabetes more. Deal-A-Meal cards. Weight Watchers frozen French fries. Weight Watchers chocolate chip cookies. Weight Watchers microwaveable chicken parmigiana dinner. I suppose the idea was: “you can lose weight eating cookies!”—fine print: but only if you follow the portions that are sized for parakeets. Well, my mom did not eat like a bird. And I loved her for that.

Back in my dorm room, I crack the good doctor’s little pamphlet-style book like I am studying for an exam. The first step is sending the body into ketosis, less than fifteen grams of carbohydrates daily, plus unlimited protein and saturated fat. Without carbohydrates, my body will burn only fat for energy—sometimes muscle too, something that I didn’t catch in the fine print. The book says it’s a “fun, high-calorie way to lose weight.” I will shed my beer drinking calories of the last few months, get ready for Thanksgiving week with Grace and her family, and still get to eat all the tasty food I want. Cheesesteaks are encouraged. No bun? No problem!

Day One. The Rutgers Student Center has a Wendy’s. Can I please get five 99-cent junior bacon cheeseburgers? Only five dollars for a delicious dinner? Let’s go!

The next day—Day Two—at the dining hall is just as effortless. Bacon and eggs for breakfast. Lunch is a heaping bowl of tuna and mayonnaise with chopped pickles. Back to Wendy’s for dinner.

Friday night (end of Day Three). I can’t believe how breezy it all is. I’m loving the bacon cheeseburgers—and the mystique of demanding them without bread. Buns are for sheep. I’m back in my silent shell, not calling Grace, Adam, or Rhonda this week.

Day Four. I’m starving. What happened? Five junior bacon cheeseburgers please. I scarf the mini patties. Is that it? I plunk down another five dollars. Ten patties. Now I feel sick. But still hungry. I’m fed up with savory foods. My tongue recoils at more fat. Mayonnaise. Tuna fish. Turkey slices with olive oil. Gross. It’s so heavy and unappealing.

Day Five. Dr. Atkins recommends anyone having a sugar craving to try one cup of sugar-free Jello topped with a spoonful of whip cream “for a tasty dessert treat.” My dorm room mini-fridge is stocked with Jello Snack-Packs and three bottles of Reddi-Wip.

Day Six. Fuck you, Dr. Atkins. I ate seven cups of sugar-free Jello in one sitting. I debate sucking all the nitrous out of the whipped cream cans.

Day Seven. I can’t concentrate in class. I get light-headed walking up the gym stairs.

Day Eight. I can taste my horrible bad breath all day. I start carrying sugar-free Tic Tacs to class, their rattling announcing my carb-deprived existence.

Day Nine. When was the last time I pooped? I haven’t eaten any fiber or veggies.

I decide this is my new normal and last five more days on tuna, Jello, and pickles. My lifting was super weak. On the plus side, I lost nine pounds total.

The 14-day cycle was my only step on the diet, using it as a crash course and shedding merely water weight. That was the real revolution. Staying in ketosis is an act of pure will that doesn’t usually last. And if you are successful at burning fat and protein for energy instead of glucose, then you’re also good at aging your skin cells and accelerating kidney and liver damage. Of course, if you’re like me, then you might take the multidisciplinary approach: all the fads all at once! Master Cleanse of lemon juice! Smoothies! Keto! Intermittent fasting! Saunas and steam rooms! And good old fashioned “Not Eating”—starving yourself for hours and hours and days and days because you’re so goddamn pathetic and weak that you don’t deserve to eat celery with peanut butter!!!! . . . . . . . . . .  Ahem… well, apart from that, I thought I was doing pretty good. Staring in my dorm room mirror again, about to get on the train to meet Grace, I think: It’s okay. I’ll just try a little harder next time.

At Thanksgiving dinner, Grace tried to convince me that I had no weight to lose.