Monthly Archives: March 2012
I have a hard time believing I was ever fatter than this.
Right now if I poke any part of my body, my finger will be engulfed and quickly lost in at least 2 inches of superfluous fat, not to be discovered again until 2032 when I have it surgically removed, having mistaken it for a malignant tumor. It’s a bad scene, my body. A bad scene.
What’s all the more disturbing is that two years ago I was 45 pounds fatter than this.
I should have diabetes just for talking about it.
I lost the weight by eating really REALLY healthy and not exercising at all. It was like, the best plan ever. But it stopped working when I stopped eating healthy, and started spending my time swimming in a pool of shame and Burger King Carmel Frappes, poking my stomach with a ruler and crying inside. It’s like my very own sorority initiation up in here. Minus the Victoria’s Secret sweatpants.
My sister is both thin and a nutritionist, making me violently hate her. We have a mostly symbiotic relationship. I give her hair and makeup advice. She tells me how not to die. I’d say we’re even. We recently spent a week emailing back and forth about my problems with binge eating and general nutritional inadequacies. We developed a diet plan for me to follow and I was feeling rather hopeful that I would not keel over dead at 30. But of course I, being the Meryl Streep of self-sabotage, clumsily fumbled through a week and a half of mismanaged eating, losing nothing but the self confidence that I would ever be able to stop adding a slice of cheese to anything microwavable.
A week or so later my sister came home for my mother’s birthday. I woke up early so I could sneak into her room and play the old childhood standby “Funny Uncle,” but as always, the sound of my breathing from two rooms away already woke her up, so I was left with nothing to talk about but my diet. The conversation went something like this:
Sister: So how’s your diet going?
Me: I …I…um, what?
Sister: what, fat clogging your ears? I said diet, fat ass.
Me: Duh…I mean. I don’t know.
Sister: You’re disgusting.
A few hours later she tried again and the conversation went slightly better. But it’s been almost a week later and I have yet to discipline myself enough to stop eating like a rabid pig. I’m reaching a turning point though. I can feel it. Sometimes people need to hit an emotional rock bottom before deciding to better themselves and with Titanic previews encompassing much of my life and free time, I am one “But the ship can’t sink!” away from offing myself.
The girl who would rather be his whore than your wife
I’m weirdly arrogant. You might assume with all of my self-deprecating hate speak I am a licensed wrist cutter, but no. I actually suffer from crippling arrogance. I might be upset about it if I wasn’t so busy blogging about it. Thank God for the Internet. And Bill Nye. That’s unrelated.
Anyway, here are a few things I brag about, that no one should brag about.
My weird relationship with body hair.
I have a weird relationship with body hair. People don’t get it. I don’t get it.
It’s like, I want to find it disgusting, but I can’t. Like how I feel about Russel Brand or used Q-tips. Unhygienic and riddled with bodily fluids, I’d still let them penetrate my ears. The Q-tips, not Russel Brand. Katy Perry sucks.
But, it’s hard to explain my attraction to body hair.
On the body…
When I think of guys with body hair I think of two things:
1. Shaving the Superman logo onto his chest and
2. That in the right lighting, I would probably have sex with an orangutan.
Instead of acknowledging this as a fetish with a 1987 expiration date, I brag about it. People just don’t get it the way I do. Which leaves me no other option but to belittle those who disagree with me, accusing the women of being lesbians, and the men of being mid-transition transsexuals. Like Khloe Kardashian.
Jk, Khlo! *Kisses*
How Infrequently I Urinate
I was born with a massive bladder. At least that’s what I tell people. While this sort of statement may not impress in the same way as, say a vestigial tail or second vagina, I still find the words “internal fanny pack” escaping my lips whenever I participate in long road trips or conversations involving Chuck Norris.
Such an asset leads to an excess of useless conversation. At least once every 72 hours, I say one of the following things:
- I’ve only peed once since Thursday.
- Wow, I haven’t peed since 6:00 am.
- Some people really pee a lot. I don’t pee a lot.
- Use the bathroom? Girl, please.
- You can get pregnant from that?!
Eh hem, yeah. You can.
Reasons I Have Ended Relationships
Much like an early 20th century Appalachian family, every time mine convenes we spend our time entertaining one another with folk tales of the crazy ass bitches we recently dumped. Since I’m like, so totally unhinged, I tend to lead these conversations.
I like to open with my story of Bernard, the Waffle House casa nova, follow up with Jehovah the 5’6 cuddle monster, and close with Pedro, the divorced –er, I mean separated, whoops – I mean separated but still living together, yikes – I mean married with an open relationship, damn –I mean married and talking kids, dude I briefly considered.
I pantomime this humiliation, the crowds go wild, and I am left feeling proud and in serious denial of how pathetic my life has truly been.
Man alive, I’m on top of the world. I better do something to knock myself off of this high horse.
Oh, wait. I woke up today. Done.
The girl with hips that lie
Relationships are tough. If they weren’t, there would be a lot less Broken Condom Baby Traps (BCBT) plotted each year.
I don’t know what that is.
I’ve had my share of fecal abundant relationships in recent years, many of which I have spouted off about in this very blog. Evidently, accusations of slander and threats to my personhood mean nothing to me because I am about to do it again. For those of you who do not spend your free time in the tree outside my window, I will give you a little back story on my current “involvement,” (thanks MS Word thesaurus! ;))
In mid-January, I found myself lonely and searching for love, just as I have the last 23 years of my life. Late night webcam conversations with hot foreign dudes and slightly homosexual thoughts about Amanda Seyfried ceased to keep me warm at night, so I decided to try “dating” again. I met the gentleman in question, we’ll call him Walter Von Trapp…
Gerard. There we go.
I met Gerard in mid-January. We had a very nice first date of sushi and abundant conversation. I was pleased to learn that like myself, he too talks during movies so much it made the black people behind us look shy. I was diggin’ it. But then 3-4 (who’s counting) weeks passed and I, being my neurotic, emotionally retarded self, avoided any face to face interaction with my potential boo (thanks Urban Dictionary!).
He addressed my obvious problems, things worked out, and we went out a few more times. He made Valentine’s Day dinner, gave me the flu before I went away, and organized a bitchin’ weekend in Philadelphia after I got home. So yeah, things sound pretty great. On the surface.
If there is one thing I have learned from my perpetual romantic misery it’s that legitimate relationships suck the life out of you. If they don’t something is clearly wrong. So to work through my concerns I have decided to analyze all of the reasons my new relationship is shitter-bound.
1. No signs of schizophrenia –It has been almost two months of involvement and I have yet to stab myself with an umbrella or dry heave “I Will Survive” out of frustration with my partner’s mental incapacities. He’s normal and I don’t know how to deal with it. It may seem like a good thing that he doesn’t own a collection of straight jackets or have a human doll fetish, but this presumed normalcy makes me a little uncomfortable. After all, if he’s mentally stable, how will he deal with me when I reveal my inner psycho, cutting off contact for three days after having a dream that he cheated on me, or bursting into tears during America’s Next Top Model? I’m afraid. Very afraid.
2. Girly Body Wash – Though our Philadelphia weekend was indeed bitchin’ I learned something about Gerard I’d rather not know. Since we were staying in a hotel when I got up for my morning shower, I was unfortunately unable to rifle through his personal belongings like I would had we been at his place. In desperation I did the next best thing and perused his shower accessories. Though I was happy to see that he is anything but hygienically-challenged, I was slightly horrified at one particular discovery: Apricot Orange body wash.
Everyone who knows me knows I could never seriously date a man who uses body wash. I like my men really rugged, and hairy, and dirty, and irrationally masculine. The kind that picks up my loofa and asks if it’s a tampon. You know what I’m saying? No? Ok.
I spent my shower time brainstorming various digs. Various comments that could emasculate him even more than the use of Apricot Orange body wash. But I could think of nothing so extreme so I decided to drop it. Unfortunately for Gerard, my wits only temporarily escaped me and I spent the rest of our time together berating him. Amazingly enough, he still wants to see me.
Maybe I should just let this one go.
3. He’s baselessly supportive of me – Unlike previous fellas who told me things like “you weren’t funny until you met me,” Gerard seems to be convinced that I had a personality prior to meeting him. I’m not sure where he gets this idea since everyone knows women aren’t capable of formulating thoughts independent of their male counterparts, but his insistence that I am “witty” and “amazing” and a “good writer,” tells me he must have ulterior motives of some kind. Perhaps he is plotting a BCBT. It’s really impossible to say. All I know is you can’t trust a guy who doesn’t try to belittle you at every opportunity. It’s just not normal.
Since I’m not in the business of predicting the future, outside of telling others that theirs is doomed, I am not going to say whether or not this relationship will last much longer than my next period. But things have been good so far and if my top three concerns are any indication of how little is actually wrong, it’s safe to say it’ll probably be awhile until I post another hopelessly bitter blog about broken hearts and Ryan Gosling. So in the meantime I can only hope that the rest of my life crumbles around me so I have something else to write about.
Until next time, stay ugly so I feel pretty.
The girl with a crush on the All State raccoon.
10 Things I Hate Today (Because I Have Nothing Better to Write about While I Wait For My Film to Develop)
OK, so after being home from the Dominican Republic for a week, one might assume I would be packing some serious literary heat, blogging about my life-altering experience before any other arbitrary topic. However, since myself and middle-aged male teachers from California are the only people left on the planet who still get our film developed, I am waiting until I have adequate visual aids to pleasure you all with my tales from down under. Or whatever.
In the meantime I am going to pleasure you with minimal enthusiasm and a loose grip on reality. So if you have nothing better to do, which you evidently do not since you are still reading, I invite you to squander a few more precious minutes of your lackluster existence and join me as I divulge 10 things I realized I hate today.
- Pregnant chicks who smoke. I hope you realize what people think when they see you: Foul tasting breast milk.
Oh, and selfish b****.
2. People named Christian. Enough said.
3. When I have used the same water bottle so many times it emits a palpable stench of saliva and backwash.
4. Rick Santorum. That’s a lie. I realized this upon conception. He may love the unborn, but it sure ain’t mutual.
You know, cause they aren’t alive.
5. Finding three week old oranges on the bottom of my purse.
6. Finding four week old bananas under my car seat.
7. Waking up with the theme song for “Braceface” stuck in my head.
8. Kesha was featured on VH1s Greatest Female Artists of the Last 20 Years. And not as a PSA for inbreeding.
9. The fact that transsexual women don’t get periods.
10. The smell of napalm in the morning.
This is the lamest post I’ve ever written. I should be ashamed. I’m embarrassing myself and loved ones. Like one of those people who go on Dr. Phil to admit they have adult baby fetish.
I never saw that on Dr. Phil. My mom told me about it. She thinks he’s hot. Dr. Phil. Not the adult baby man. Benjamin Button freaked her out.
I’ll write something better soon. Or soon I’ll write better. Whatever you are more inclined to believe.
The girl with the boring blog