Page 1 of I Can't Even

I need to lose weight. I know how to lose weight, but I don’t want to do the things I need to do to lose the weight, but I still want to lose weight. You know what I mean?

—Text from Ellodie to her mom

ELLODIE

I groaned, let my head fall back to rest against the very well-worn fabric of my headrest, and contemplated parking and walking the rest of the way home.

But then, the thought of having to make the hike back to my car at five in the morning sounded even less appealing.

I narrowed my eyes, glaring hard at the orange and white blockade in front of me.

A freakin’ parade.

Of all things.

In the middle of the damn evening rush hour traffic.

Sure, I’d seen the signs for the parade all over the neighborhood. Knew that roads would be blocked off for a majority of the evening, but I’d forgotten.

I mean, I had zero time to be thinking about blockades and how I was going to get home when I was struggling to keep my head above water.

The one and only good thing about going back to school to get my nurse anesthetist license was this time around, I wasn’t eating Ramen Noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Now, I had money in the bank.

But also, I was working a full-time job at the hospital while going back to school, doing clinicals where needed, and ultimately running myself ragged.

So yeah, remembering that a freakin’ parade, of all things, was going to be blocking every single way home was really the last thing on my mind.

I looked over at the seat next to me where I had a textbook denting the cushion. I considered picking up the massive beast, but ultimately decided against it.

I needed a break.

I’d been studying on and off throughout my shift, and to be completely honest, I was freakin’ tired.

The last thing I wanted to do was pick it up and continue to go through it.

I felt like my head was about to explode.

Picking up my phone instead, I started to mindlessly search through Facebook, then Instagram, followed by TikTok. It was thirty-five minutes later when I realized that not only did I have to eat something before I died, but I also had to pee.

And since I wasn’t at work, I didn’t tend to deny that urge if I felt it.

Glancing around the neighborhood I’d been parked outside of for the last hour as I watched parade floats pass between buildings in the distance, I spotted a Crispy Chicken sign, and felt my heartrate pick up.

Growing up in a small, middle of nowhere town, not far from the Arkansas/Louisiana/Texas line, there was one singular place that had food. The gas station, that happened to have a fast-food chain, Crispy Chicken, in it.

Crispy Chicken was a delicacy for the Solaire family.

My dad, Harvey, and my mom, Hall, were both fifth generation farmers. My dad grew up farming soybean, sunflowers, and peanuts, while my mom harvested corn, cotton, and feed grains.

Together, they’d joined two of the biggest farms in the area and formed one huge conglomerate that lived, breathed, and died agriculture.

Truthfully, I could count on two hands the number of times we went out to a fancy restaurant.

But Crispy Chicken?

Man, that was my jam when I was a kid.

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