Naked truth

Eating better and working out is going OK, but I realized I have a new fitness goal: to look as good naked as I do dressed. I look adorable today… or at least I will until I go home and take off my pretty wrapping. Then the illusion is shattered when everything on me goes “flump.”

I don’t even know if my body is capable of being toned — I’ve been thinner, but still looked like I was covered in vanilla pudding when naked. My shoulders and clavicle are bony as fuck, yet I have a gut like Nacho Libre — where does that get logical? This is how I know I was not intelligently designed — only a system that gave us the duck-billed platypus could also provide this particular assemblage. The good Lord woulda had His shit together.

Maybe there’s a spa treatment that can just slough off all my skin so I can start over.

(I’ll have none of your logic about patience and perseverance and inner beauty. FEH! I want to look like Ashley Graham tomorrow. Make it so.)

Body shaming. Now in a convenient Snack Pack!

Talking to Male BFF…

Me: “I look better with clothes on. When I’m naked I look like a vat of vanilla pudding.”

MBFF: “[thinking]…There’s really no appropriate response for me here, is there?”

Me: “Nah, probably not.”

Fun with Facebook Fitness “Facts”

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.)