Family, Food, Facebook, Fat, Fuck.

I had written all this high and mighty shit about feeling bad for my mom, because she’s so worried about her weight that she deprives herself of delicious food. I prattled on about how I was glad I let myself enjoy food, because pfft, I’m clearly SO above those outdated ideas, and fuck it, we only get one trip through here, so we might as well have cake.

Aaand then my brother Facebook-tagged me in some party pics from the other night, and you know those weight-loss ads where the women are all, “I saw myself in a photo and realized I am a giant fuckoff hambeast?” Yeahhh… I’m gonna have to rebuild some of that body confidence I’d been having.

Cameras lie, though. They are tricksy and false. Basically wizards. Shifty wizards, in cahoots with angles and lighting. That’s right, I said it — cahoots.

Still, maybe some exercise is in order. We all know I’ll do whatever Shaun T tells me to.

No kale, though.

Fuck kale.

“I may be dumb, but I’m not a dweeb…”

Quotable friend, re: all the bullshit thinking therapists make you do: “Therapy thoughts seem like they’re probably pretty rough. But you’re having them for a good reason. They’re like the kale of thoughts.”

Get this: I have to make a list of positive things about myself. Attributes, accomplishments, etc. I probably can’t list my breasts, and here’s the kicker — I can’t ask other people. What the shit? How am I supposed to get self-esteem from myself? That seems counterintuitive.

(Video contains language not at all safe for work.)

See also: salty goodness

Like everyone else, I’ve been trying to eat better in the new year, and to that end, I’ve been trying to make sense of kale.

Kale and I have a lot in common: Rub us the right way and we become delicious, and far more inclined to bend to your will.