The other day my friend made a side-by-side photo of her face on the day she started working out, and her face a few weeks after, and you can really see a difference — she’s lost weight and she’s glowier (totally a word).
I just did the same photo, and…welp, now I’m just gonna eat a whole pizza for breakfast because fuck this fruit bullshit, I look EXACTLY the same. My body is disloyal and this is just what I weigh. Maybe I’ll be a fat activist. Maybe I’ll just gain MORE weight and get my own reality show. I’m probably funnier than most of the people on My 600-Pound Life.
Super cute OkCupid guy and I have tons in common, but he exercises every day and likes “fit” women.
OK, listen — I am not fit. But I’m pretty sure you could fuck fitness into me. We should try. What if I’m Patient Zero for innovative new science? We could be pioneers!
Tell ya what: Go down on me for 10 minutes today, I’ll go for a run tomorrow. Solid exchange, no? Plus, bonus, the more we repeat this process, the thinner my thighs get, the easier you fit between them. BOOM, everybody wins.
And hey, if it doesn’t work, feel free to ditch my fat ass after a month. I’ll have intimacy anxiety by then, anyway.
Diet and fitness challenge with friends, Day 1: There is no cheese on this salad and everything is stupid and tastes like tragedy with a dressing of baby unicorn tears and I’m still menstruating and if you don’t hear from me again it’s because I died of cheeselessness and injustice.
Um, false. Well, I guess it’s true in that every man I’ve ever loved has, in fact, HAD abdominal muscles somewhere on his person. But I don’t have a six-pack, so I’d be kind of an asshole if I expected my mate to have one. I have a six-pack of, like…single-serve vanilla puddings.
Do I want to lick Christian Bale? Certainly. Do I love him? No.
P.S. Can I lick Christian Bale? Please? Can he be wearing only a utility belt and the Batman mask while I do it? (Don’t judge me.)