It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I’m currently sitting in the Jet Blue JFK terminal, contently munching on some linguini alfredo. And I’m thinking to myself: crap, crap, crap, I’m going to be cleaning that toilet for the rest of my life.

Let me explain: You see, I’ve got this running bet with my roommate that whoever loses 10 pounds first must clean the other’s bathroom and make their bed for a week.

Now, I thought I had the competitive advantage. I’ve got a fast metabolism, reasonable stamina and tremendous willpower — oh, is that a Jamba Juice cup I see? That looks delicious.

To motivate me, I decided to capitalize on the fact that my roommate had four exams in a row, and thus no time to exercise. So, I busted out the sharpie, drew some abs on my gut and shoved the Jillian Michaels tape into the TV.

Oh? Did I mention I drew abs on my stomach in Sharpie? Yeah, for some reason it occurred to me that because it was a marker, Sharpie would wash off easier than pen.

Sometimes, you've just got to take the word “permanent” a little more seriously than that. Needless to say, the lady that super checked me at the gate — because that’s what happens when you show up at the airport late ... they make your life a living hell — thought I was a super weirdo with superbadtaste in tattoos.

But, hey! Those abs motivated me. I did those darn workout tapes in the basement every single day. Granted, I did them with the blinds shut, the doors locked and the most massive pit stains on my shirt. My roommates would see me emerge from that dungeon and think, “God, did she get in a fight with the monster who lives downstairs, or what?”

But it worked. A week later, and I was as ripped as a week with the Satan of all workouts can get you. And by that, I mean I could faintly detect a little definition in my triceps. You know, if I pushed all the blubbery stuff out of the way.

But that one pound I lost was one closer to seeing my roommate on her hands and knees, scrubbing my mercilessly dirty bathroom floor. (Actually, it gets cleaned every Wednesday. So I’m planning to reveal my weight loss winnings on a Tuesday, to substantially increase punishment.)

But, as my Alfredo munching suggests, something has gone awry. Somewhere between leaving Ithaca and munching foie gras in a Puerto Rican restaurant, my diet went to hell.

Our turkey, cooked lovingly by my aunt’s new husband, was latticed with bacon and injected with rum. Injected. As in bacon fat, alcohol and needles. Isn’t Puerto Rican thanksgiving great? Yeah, the new dimples in my butt think so too.

So I’ve got to get back on track. And since crash dieting is out of the question, I’m feeling like a little subversion is in order.

For my first attack, I’m going to capitalize on my roommate’s weakness for chocolate. Strategically located Hershey kisses are going to work wonders. There’s nothing like those silver triangle temptations to really get a girl going. And since I’m not a chocolate lover, I’ve got nothing to fear.

Then, I’m going to bake six more of those sweet potato pies she so desperately loves. Sure, she baked four for Thanksgiving. I thought that was advantage enough for me. But she’s got the Jillian Michaels tape ... and I’ve got the bacon turkey. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

If these two strategies aren’t enough, I’ve got one final nuclear bomb that’ll blow the pants off of this competition. Of course, I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’m pretty sure my roommate reads this column — but probably only because I open every Sun I see in the Hotel School to my page on Mondays.

Rest assured, though, the attack will be epic. I’ll give you a little hint: It involves some injections of my own.

But, in the meanwhile, I’m going to take advantage of the competitive genius of my new plan. Mmmm .... Häagen-Dazs, here I come.

Cristina Stiller is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at cstiller@cornellsun.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.