So, the next stop is Dunkin' Donuts. I finish the BK with gusto. I don't want the order-takers at Dunkin' Donuts to see my BK bags. At Dunkin' Donuts, I order an everything bagel with extra vegetable cream cheese, American cheese, and an egg. I debate whether I should order Dunkin' Donuts chocolate chip cookies or McDonald's (which is now definitely at the end of my loop). Tonight, I don't want to wait and order six chocolate chip cookies. I'm having a great time. I'm high. I'm blasting the radio.

Next stop is Taco Bell/Pizza Hut. How convenient that they are built together. I order a supreme personal pizza and nachos with extra extra cheese and sour cream. I wish that they had desserts there, but all they have are cinnamon twists, and those are just okay. Glad I got the cookies! I'm driving with one hand and eating with the other.

After I'm through with the evidence from each meal, I hide it under the seat. Other cars are hurrying home from the train station. But I'm not ready to go home yet. I'm flying. I'm buzzing.

McDonald's. I order another fish sandwich with extra extra tartar sauce — they have the good sauce — French fries and a McFlurry with extra extra M&Ms and Oreo cookies. Next, at KFC, I order only one thing: a Twister, a wrap of chicken strips with extra extra sauce. I have one more fast-food stop: Wendy's. I order an extra-large French fries — these taste different, more potatoey, and I like them the best — and a simple single with cheese. I'm doing good!

Before going home, I stop for my late-night snack. I pull through the Dairy Barn. There's a very overweight woman who slumps at the cash register.

I ask for my snack: a box of Yodels and a Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie frozen yogurt. The Häagen Dazs Mocha Chip ice cream was what I really wanted, but I didn't want to overdo it.

Her hair is pulled back from her face. She doesn't wear any makeup. It looks like it hurts her fingers — they are so swollen, bitten down, without any nail polish — to be a cashier. She languidly takes my money and, even more slowly, gives me change. I always compare myself with her, and in my mind, I always come out thinner.

Some weeks I spend $300 to $400 a week on fast food and deliveries, but it's worth it. Tonight, I'm in that sultry, full, near comatose state, surrounded by the smell of grease, salt, fish, meat, and sugar, clinging to my skin.

I slump back in my car seat. I don't want to leave. American flags wave on porches. I try not to move at all. It's like I've just spent an evening out with my friends partying at a great party.

And it's like I have a hole in my soul.

The first stars fade into the twilight. I love astronomy. I love really dark nights in the woods. We camped out a lot when we were kids. I want to wish on the first star, and try to form the words, star light, star bright. I let my mind wander over other things I could eat, and I stare out into infinity in a hazy, happy calm.

If I don't want my Chocolate Fudge Brownie frozen yogurt to melt — though I like it when the brownie chunks nestle into the soft, melting cream — it's less effort to eat — I'd better get going. It hurts to move my legs or to bend my stomach and sit straight up. I do it all in slow motion, as if I need to be guided by the stars.

But before I go into the house, I clean out my car. The salt of the sea settles on the street. I manage a deep breath with a little effort. I make sure the top of the garbage can is on tight and secure and drag the can to the curb for pickup.

I lock my car.

I step away from my car.

And with that, all that I have injected into my mouth evaporates. None of what I've eaten counts. Not one bite. That's the rule, if I eat in my car. It's as if the past 2 hours, my entire fast-food loop, didn't happen. I'm empty — that hole in my soul is bigger, not smaller.

Yet my mouth opens and a laugh comes out. Somehow I think I've gotten one over on someone. I carry my Yodels and frozen yogurt upstairs. I'll start my diet on Monday.

Excerpted from “Confessions of a Carb Queen” by Susan Blech. Copyright 2008 Susan Blech. Reprinted with permission from Rodale Books. All rights reserved.

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