Welcome to the Great Life Purge

When you cut junk food to lose weight, that’s just the beginning. Hundreds of dominoes fall. Welcome to The Great Life Purge—that glorious, semi-manic chain reaction where you set out to cut one small vice and suddenly find yourself Marie Kondo-ing your entire existence with a vengeance.

You think weight loss is just about dialing back calories and hitting your macros? Think again. This isn’t a tweak. It’s a controlled burn. A purge. A full-blown exorcism of the clutter, chemicals, and chaos posing as comfort. You’re not escaping Fat Jail with a low-carb key and a side of willpower—you’re staging a prison riot and setting the whole institution on fire.

Think of your life as a garage—no, not one of those Pinterest garages with labeled bins and mounted bikes. I’m talking about a real garage. The kind where a busted leaf blower shares space with a half-used tub of creatine and a pile of shame. That’s your psyche. And mine. Crammed with junk, denial, and forgotten intentions. And now? I’m hauling it all to the curb.

It started with coffee. I used to down 36 ounces in the morning like a jittery insomniac in a diner scene. Now I’ve cut that to 18. Less milk. Less sweetener. Less gut turmoil. Fewer acid flashbacks from the third cup. Progress.

Then came lunch. I evicted the canned fish—farewell, mercury-laced mackerel and gout-triggering sardines. My new midday ritual is an arugula salad with tempeh, beans, and cottage cheese—a meal so righteous it practically writes its own self-help book.

Whey protein? Slashed in half. Just enough to lace my morning yogurt. Sure, I could use more protein, but I’m not going to burn down my 2,400-calorie ceiling just to keep my muscles Instagram-ready.

Snacks? Gone. Munchdrift—my term for the unplanned snack spiral that sneaks calories into the bloodstream like an embezzler—has been cut off at the source. There’s no room for that soft betrayal anymore.

Creatine? Down from 6 grams to 3. Why? Because I’m not trying to retain water like a Roman cistern. I’m done with the bloat masquerading as muscle.

Social media? I nuked 97% of it. That dopamine circus was hijacking my focus, feeding my anxiety, and keeping me stuck in a loop of comparison, craving, and manufactured outrage. Cutting it wasn’t self-care. It was a hostage negotiation with my own sanity.

Even my workout chalk had to go. Turns out those satisfying powder clouds were drying out my hands and spawning digital ulcers—tiny, furious paper cuts from hell. Three weeks off chalk, and the wounds are retreating like a bad memory.

And yes—I quit buying watches. Why? Because a bloated watch collection leads to wrist rotation anxiety, which feeds decision fatigue, which then morphs into existential despair that can only be soothed by ice cream. Every anxiety becomes a hunger. I had to cut it at the root.

Notice the verbs: cut, quit, slashed, purged. This isn’t moderation. This is triage. What started as a diet became a full-scale reckoning. Because once you yank one loose thread, the whole costume of denial begins to unravel. You’re not just quitting sugar and processed carbs—you’re firing the whole cabinet of coping mechanisms.

The Great Life Purge doesn’t just empty your garage—it changes your address. You’re no longer living in the house of excuses. You’re moving into something leaner, meaner, and unmistakably yours.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fat mountain to climb—and I don’t need a sugar crash, a digital ulcer, or a six-watch rotation slowing me down.