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.)
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.)