I’ll just live under the stairs, it’s fine.

I’m preliminary swimsuit shopping for my April vacation, and even on the curvy-chicks, we-need-underwires, our-models-have-an-adorable-hint-of-backfat site, I want to jump out the goddamn window.

It’s February. This layer of fat is keeping me warm, thankyouverymuch. I will be a quality buffet if the apocalypse happens — I am marbled as FUCK. And I’m also SUPER good spending my life in these oversized sweats. HMPH.

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Yo quiero a fatnap.

“How’s weight loss going?”

“Well, I worked out for 2 hours this morning, then had to WORK for 8, and now it’s 9 p.m. and taco delivery is on its way, and then I’m gonna go collapse in my bed in a fat, torpid, guacamole-infused heap, so…👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼“

“Just writing to remind you you’re a fat-ass. Carry on!

This was in my mail when I got home, as if Cigna knew I’d ordered a big fuck-off pizza on the way.

In a related story, Cigna can eat a dick, which I hear are low in cholesterol.

EDIT
Followup: If you ever wondered, this is what happens when you tweet publicly that “Cigna can eat a dick.”

Missing the (Hall)mark

*girl in my office gets Valentine flowers*
 
“Awww, I want flowers…” *pout*
“Do you want to actually DATE a man so he’ll send them to you?”
“Oh. Um…nah, I’m good. I’ll just buy my own flowers and skip that side of bullshit.”
 
Happy Valentine’s Day, my lovelies! 💕

“Um…it’s cold in here…?”

It’s been so long since I’ve had someone’s hand graze the back of my neck that I’d almost forgotten it’s one my most sensitive erogenous zones.

So praise be to lined bras, ‘cause my haircut/color could’ve just gotten hella awkward.