basis--fatly and flabbily organized, to be sure, but organized just the
same. Now, then, when I arbitrarily cut down the amount of food and
drink for which my system was organized that entire system rose up in
active revolt and yelled for what it had been accustomed to get. There
wasn't a minute for more than three months when I wasn't hungry, actually
hungry for food; when the sight of food did not excite me and when I did
not have a physical longing and appetite for food; when my stomach did
not seem to demand it and my palate howl for it. It was different with
the drinking. I got over that desire rather promptly, but with a
struggle, at that; but the food-yearn was there for weeks and weeks, and
it was a fight--a bitter, bitter fight!

When I went to the table and saw the good things on it, and knew I
intended only to eat small portions of them, especially of my favorite
desserts and my beloved hot-bread, I simply had to grip the sides of my
chair and use all the will-power I had to keep from reaching out and
grabbing something and stuffing it into my mouth! My friends used to
think it was all a joke. It was farther from being a joke than anything
you ever heard about. It was a tragedy--a grim, relentless tragedy! It
was acute physical suffering. My body cried out for that same amount of
food I had been giving it all those years. I wanted to give it that same
amount. I have had to leave the table time and time again to get hold of
myself and go back to the smaller portions I had allotted to myself. I
liked to eat, you know.

Nothing much happened for a few weeks, though the waistband of my
trousers grew looser. Then a lot of excess baggage seemed to drop away
all at once. I weighed myself and found I had taken off twenty-five
pounds. Friends told me to quit--that I should overdo it. I laughed at
them. I knew I was still twenty-five pounds too heavy and I was just