Shower for the good of all mankind.

Where have I been? Trying not to breathe on the bus home from work while a foul-smelling 25-year-old plugs himself into his iPod next to me, that's where. Feverishly sewing pareos, none of which made it onto DailySkirt. And paying strangers to rub me.

That's right, you heard me. A land where you can drop by your gym for a massage on the spur? That land is America. Let freedom ring.

Today I start an 18-week odyssey of weight loss. This is me trying to be tactful. For the last few weeks, I've been calling it "the program." Now that I've started, I notice it has become "the fucking program." Who knows what it will become?

It started last night with a women's support group, at which I and another girl were immediately pegged as troublemakers when she discovered no wine--no wine at all--was allowed on the program, and then I asked if the meeting organizer was put off by open weeping.

At least I didn't have to stand up and say, "My name is Brooke, and I am fat," although that is certainly true. I did have to cop to where the last 30 (OK 40) pounds have come from: namely, vodka and cappuccino-chip muffins, bought on the sly and consumed by the pound.

Anyway, expect regular updates, such as these:

• Dude, what the fuck? Can you not smell that?
• Jesus fucking Christ, you mean I can't eat anything but shakes for two weeks?
• Oh my fucking God.

That is all.