Dear Type II Diabetes

I like food.  I really like food.  I have already paid for this in blood, sweat, tears, and the taunts of "Fatty fat fat fat" from the local school children.  I don't need this from you.

There I was, trying to enjoy my holidays, one cookie at a time, and you had to rear your ugly head.  I felt like my strategy of "pretend you don't have diabetes" was working out way better than the "blow off fun stuff to exercise and don't even think about eating the foods you like" plan I had been on.  Apparently, diabetes is not like Paris Hilton.  If you ignore it long enough, it doesn't shrivel up and die like the unfathomable whore that everyone knows that it is. 

Just because I don't go to my endocrinologist, don't regulate my diet, rarely exercise, and lead a mostly sedientary lifestyle you think you can waltz right in and make my legs fall off.  Not cool, man. 

So, now I have to eat sucky food, stab myself with little needles and let out my sweet, tangy blood for a computer to eat.  I am not fully convinced that the tester will not develop a craving for my blood and slit my throat while I sleep, so now I have to worry about both it and Ed Asner doing that to me. 

All in all, I liked it alot better when I just had worms.