She's Lost Control Again

First off, I have no idea why I keep using lyrics as blog titles, but I've done this many times in the past as well, so... Yeah. Let's just pretend it makes me cool.
This is another cautionary tale about robots. Recently, my husband and I downloaded the My Fitness Pal app. Have you seen this? Have you heard about this? It's really quite amazing. You log your height, weight, and measurements, then tell it what your goal is. Mine, as I assume most people who use this would be, is to lose weight. It then spits out a complete nutritional breakdown of what you should eat in a day.
For me, I want to lose twenty-five pounds. It's a reasonable goal and honestly, I may have gone a little overboard on the holiday binge eating, so it's not like twenty-five pounds is going to make me bone thin, just healthier. Plus, for me, my biggest issue is cholesterol and staying withing a normal hemoglobin A1c level, so now I can track my fats and sugars instead of just calories. How can this go wrong?
Um, guys? I just handed control of my food intake, that stuff that keeps me alive, over to a robot. A robot who is slowly starving me to death.
Okay, to be fair, when I first became diabetic, I logged everything I ate in a notebook along with my blood sugar readings and exercise log. It was amazingly useful and I managed to lose almost fifty pounds in a year. On average, I was eating between 1200 and 1800 calories a day. My diet hasn't changed that much since then, but I did put ten pounds back on that I haven't been able to take back off.
Hence the robotic personal assistant. For whatever reason, watching my available calories (out of 1500) dwindle is nerve racking. If I go too low, I can exercise in attempt to reclaim some calories for the next meal. Naturally, I want to please my new fitness overlords, so I try to come in under goal on the bad stuff and over goal on the good stuff. I am a good minion.
But I'm so freaking hungry! Remember, I used to eat less than that all the time and I never had a problem. I think my robot is testing me.I've already passed the first test, which was acknowledging that the robots know what's good for me better than I do. This is a test to see how much physical trauma I can endure. This is a test to see if I become one of the Agent Smiths or if I get stuck in a bathtub full of goo to be harnessed for energy. 
I'm waiting to see what happens when the app begins communicating with my Fitbit. I fear the day when my motivational messages become commands to go faster, give more, push, stop being a girly-man! But I'll do it, crying the whole time, complaining about the stitch in my side, the cramps in my legs, my shin splints, mashing my damaged feet into bloody stumps.
Because I don't want to be robot food.