I just dropped flaky bits of cinnamon bun into my cleavage, in case you were wondering if I could BE any sexier.
I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.
For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.
Bring it, lady.
Texting with friends…
Friend 1: “You know it was a productive therapy session when you immediately get cheese fries afterwards.”
Friend 2: “Nice. I’m going tonight as well.”
Me: “Ha, I’m going tomorrow.”
Friend 1: “Awwwww…we’re on the same therapy cycle.”
Friend 2: “That feels more important than syncing our periods.”
“Ooh, Friend of Facebook Friend is cuuute. I should ask her about him.”
“He lives in St. Louis.”
“And? I’d hardly ever have to shave, and I could just fly out once a month for sex and barbecue!”
My family, over the course of one 4-hour gathering: “Look how fat Aunt So-and-So got. And her husband’s no better, he’s about to keel over any day, he’s so big … Look at that woman on TV, she’s too heavy to be wearing that dress … Have you ever seen that show, My 600-Pound Life? So disgusting, I’d just stop feeding them all that junk if I were their caregiver … Hey, Smug, do you want some kielbasa or some cheesecake?”
Ummmmm… CHRIST the fuck, no. My surprise that I made it through life without an eating disorder is oddly filling.
My therapist told me to eat carbs, including my beloved corn muffins if that’s what I want.
I’m alternating between “BOOM! MUFFIN SCIENCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” and “I need a new therapist.”