Today I learned that my mother weighs herself every day, writes it down, and SAVES IT. I told her that sounds a little unhealthy, and she said, “It’s fine, it’s just that’s one of the only things I can control.”
NOT HELPING YOUR CASE, MA!
They weighed me at the doctor yesterday and it’s more than I’ve ever weighed, by, like, a LOT, so I made the mistake of telling her I need to lose some weight.
“Maybe you and I can do a contest and see who can lose the most weight!”
“Nope. Nooope. Hard pass.”
“Why? I thought that’d be motivation!”
“I am not contributing in any way to you doing that.”
You guys… HOW am I not in an institution?!
BTW, I feel like it’s no coincidence that I’ve gained 25 lbs since January. But fuck THAT — my ass will be great again.
One more on this, and then, sweet baby Jesus willing, I think I’m done.
Possibly (erm, make that probably) inebriated conversation with a male friend…
Friend: “Does That Guy know you’re the one writing these posts when he likes them on Tumblr?”
Me: “Yep. I told him about it before I fucked everything up.”
Friend: “Before HE fucked everything up. Don’t get it twisted.”
Me: “Mutual destruction.”
Friend: “That’s weird, though.”
Me: “What, that he knows? Or that he’ll like posts about my body but turned down my many offers to do any naughty little thing he wanted to it?”
Friend: “Both. I mean, he made his choice, right?”
Me: “Eh. It’s fine. He doesn’t read often. If I don’t want him to like the posts, I’ll just keep writing about feelings. He never did like my feelings.”
1. Looks like I’ll have to go buy Cosmo for the first time in 100 years.
2. I love how the cover encourages women to “UP YOUR CASH FLOW”…right next to her boobs.
3. I can’t WAIT to get my new 2016 ass. I really hope it arrives in time for New Year’s.
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.
You guys? My ass looks GREAT today.
Usually I find my butt kind of pancakey, so I just felt like sharing its rare triumph.
It was probably intended as flattery, or dude is just bad with dimensions, but in the course of normal conversation last night, a guy asked me, “How much could you possibly weigh, like 110?”
Hair and breasts alone, you can’t possibly believe that.
I’m not complaining about my weight, I’m adorable. But I’m not 110.
Wait ’til you witness the reverb when you spank my ass, sir — adjust your numbers and report back.