Well, oh my…
Well, oh my…
I’m thinking about where I was last New Year’s Eve, mentally and physically, and… son of a bitch, that IS real, tangible progress. I suddenly have a li’l extra swagger this evening — 2016 is gonna be the year of Dat Ass.
Happy almost new year, my lovelies. My bourbon cider and I salute you. Have fun, be safe, and thank you for reading my silliness this year.
Cheers and hugs,
I didn’t realize until I got to work that the lacy trim on the butt edge of my panties is visible under these pants, so it looks like I have one particularly prominent strip of cellulite on each ass cheek.
I had far too many feelings yesterday resulting from being social, so of course now that I have a free day to myself, as soon as I woke up they all came rushing back, and it was like a team of squirrels took over my brain and started playing emotional volleyball — “Sad about this!” *pass* “Insecure about that!” *pass* “Oh, hey, what about having kids, wanna rehash that one?” *pass*
Right. So I’ll be here all day with a slow drip of coffee martinis, watching comfort movies. I dare you to be sad when Justin Timberlake is serenading Mila Kunis with Kris Kross’s “Jump.” (Plus…dat ass.)
Or, hell, this seems like a pretty solid state of mind to finally go see
Inside Out and just embrace it all. (Obviously with a venti spiked Starbucks and a big fuck-off tray of theater nachos. That’s just being prepared; I learned that shit in Girl Scouts.)
Whatever, Thursday, you’re not defeating me. Wanna know why?
1. My company closes early today and — here’s the kicker — we might actually GET out early, which is just unheard of.
2. I don’t have to set an alarm clock, wear makeup, OR WEAR PANTS tomorrow if I don’t want to
3. This dress I have on? I bought it specifically because I tried it on and my ass looked amazing, like someone had replaced my standard sad pancake butt with two delightful, fluffy croissants.
So blow me, Thursday. You’re just Friday’s little bitch-sister. No one is ever happy it’s Thursday. They’re happy it’s “almost Friday.” Yeah, I said it. Why don’t you quit trifling with me and go reevaluate your own life?
Email to a friend who’s been advising me on this mood-swinging thing I have happening:
“Now that you’ve told me vitamin D pills are fat-soluble, I have visions of them bouncing happily around on the pile of manicotti in my fat, fat ladybelly. Like a cheesy adipose bouncy castle.”