It’s during events like the SuperBowl (which, by the way, B is *extremely* happy not to be watching with Mustang–he still hasn’t forgiven her for asking him why he was watching “this stupid game” while he was cheering on his beloved Pats to victory–the joy of mothers-in-law) that diabetes really stinks. I mean, it stinks all the time, don’t get me wrong, but on days when what you want to be doing is drinking a couple of beers, eating chips and other heavily-carbed tasty treats, it *really* stinks. I hate trying to keep my bloodsugar under control. I hate that I can’t eat even a handful of chips without sending it up (despite careful carb-counting and bolusing). It just makes me *mad*. And then, when despite my best efforts, the numbers creep up anyways (even on days without carb-temptations like today), it makes me hate myself. I have to admit: I am *tired* of the struggle. I am tired.