I'm fat. I'm pudgy and puffy. Fatty fatty, two by four. I'm bulgy, malformed and lumpy. I am the big fat sow for the winter's lard that Johnny Cash was singing about in his version of "Country Trash." I am a hideous, 5'2 pile of cellulite and self-pity. I will most certainly shuffle off this mortal coil in a filthy house with reinforced walls, surrounded by Twinkie wrappers, my gigantic gut smushed up against the flat screen. And when the stench of my putrefying corpse finally disturbs my neighbours and they realize that the Big Fat Scary Lady Who Never Goes Outside has gone to Jesus, they will kindly see to it that a crane hauls me out of the house and carts me away to the hospital furnace, which my big fat ass will probably clog up and break.
Yeah, this is what happens when I can't train as much as I want to due to my piles upon piles of schoolwork and a busted shoulder. My jeans feel tight and the Belt of Truth won't do up on the "it's ok, you're not morbidly obese" notch. The teeny tiny sane portion of my brain knows that I'm probably not that much bigger and that a week of working out and eating soup and Subway turkey sandwiches will get me back to where I was before. But the much larger and noisier crazy part of my brain is insisting that this is the beginning of my turning into a lard-ass like my father and if I had any kind of resolve and wasn't such a lazy, useless loser, this wouldn't be happening.
Sigh. Everyone feel sorry for me and my body image issues. One two three, go.
In other news, I gave Brick the arse. That doesn't mean I let him do that booty-pokin' thing that so many boys think is so darn nifty. It's actually a charming Australian term for letting someone know their services are no longer required. He turned out to be a waste of text messaging budget. I still haven't seen Forthright, but I hit up Babydaddy last week. He took me to a Blackhawks game which fucking ruled. I like hockey, so many things crashing into other things. I've never hung out with Babydaddy without getting shit-housed, which I suppose is somewhat concerning, but whatever. He's fun and he always has Vitamin Water in his fridge and an ample supply of goldfish crackers.
Kitty peer-pressured me into getting a tattoo with her last weekend. I've been thinking about it for a while, so it wasn't a total spur-of-the-moment, talked-me-into-it thing. I think it looks pretty rad, or at least at will when it stops being all scabby. A tattoo fits nicely into this rock'n'roll lifestyle I seem to be enjoying at the moment. Now all I need is a sex-tape scandal, a DUI, and a stint at Promises, and I'll really be one of the cool kids.
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