Don’t take away my hobbies.

“Stop beating yourself up.”

“But beating myself up is my cardio.”

I’ll pass on the cattle appraisal, thanks.

I saw this immediately as an opportunity for creepy strangers to read the shirt, assess my body, and offer me commentary on it. Hard pass.

(Though, my therapist and several friends agree I’ve built up my emotional walls SO high that men can’t even see me to BE creepy, so strange men usually don’t talk to me, which…SCORE!)

See, THIS is why I shouldn’t be alone with my thoughts.

This is kind of a lot for a Saturday morning, but I need it out of MY head, so I’ll just vomit it along to you fine people!

I’m going to talk to my therapist about this on Monday, and I’m really not looking forward to it, because I don’t even know where to start in figuring it out.

I don’t know why I can’t just TALK to guys on dating apps. Every time I try to, I freeze up, get anxious, and run away. And I don’t know if it’s because I don’t actually want to date, or that I think I’d feel overwhelmed if I added that to my life (which often already overwhelms me — thanks, Anxiety!), or if I’m scared to…get hurt? To have something actually work out?

I’ve tried thinking about it and I got nothin’. Maybe I just believe I’ll meet someone in person like I always have — online dating has never gotten me anyone worthwhile, so maybe I’m convinced it’s not worth it. I don’t go out a TON, but I go out more than I used to, so it’s not like online is the only way I’m going to meet men.

Do I just really not want to shave my legs more often?

My guess is that it’s all of the above. But if I really don’t want to or don’t think it’s worth it, then I should just delete the accounts and stop wasting everyone’s time.

Ugh. Therapy is gonna suuuuuck. She’s going to make me…feel feelings. And ahhh, fuck, I BET she asks about my dad. 🤢

All my shit is so textbook that they can’t even PUT it in textbooks because it’s too easy. You could tell a toddler my business and they’d be like, “Well, yeah, obviously…”

Call Me By Your Name

Jesus Christ, book I’m reading. Just call me out by name next time, damn…

 

(The Year of Less, by Cait Flanders, if you wondered. I wasn’t expecting to feel so personally attacked by a book about saving money and getting rid of clutter.)

Professionally insecure

I had an insecure day at work, and I’m attempting to reason with the cunt-y part of my brain that’s telling me I’m complete shit at the ONE marketable skill I allegedly have.

But the thing is, the bitch in my brain doesn’t run on logic. So, “Hey, you still HAVE the job, and you just had a good annual review and got a raise!” And she’s like, “NOPE, doesn’t matter. You suck at everything and should just hole up in your hermit fortress and stare at the walls forever. Oh, and you’ll do that ALONE, as long as we’re planning.”

This part of my brain should be in Congress. Can’t tell that bitch SHIT.

But also, fuck you, Brain. I’m gonna give you sleep, then baked goods in the morning, and tomorrow will be better. You go ‘head and try talkin’ trash with a face fulla scone. Wench.

My 600-Pound Brain

The other day my friend made a side-by-side photo of her face on the day she started working out, and her face a few weeks after, and you can really see a difference — she’s lost weight and she’s glowier (totally a word).

I just did the same photo, and…welp, now I’m just gonna eat a whole pizza for breakfast because fuck this fruit bullshit, I look EXACTLY the same. My body is disloyal and this is just what I weigh. Maybe I’ll be a fat activist. Maybe I’ll just gain MORE weight and get my own reality show. I’m probably funnier than most of the people on My 600-Pound Life.

I quit. Send snacks.

Thank you for attending my tantrum.

“Any questions?” Oh, SO many questions!

My brain on online dating: “Have I told you lately that you’re an undateable garbage monster?”

Also my brain on online dating: “Mm hm, sure have — several times, actually. Also, shut the fuck up, I’m trying to get us laid here.”

Oh. Well, fuck you, too, Victoria’s Secret.

Oh, OK, cool, ‘cause my fat ass needed to save some money not shopping your bullshit, anyway, you word-misusing jagoff fuckface. (Even putting aside this topic, dude sounds like a complete tool.)

Via Jezebel: Victoria’s Secret Doesn’t Want Plus Size or Trans Women Walking the Runway

Sounds like a charmer…

Say what you will about my broken self-image, but at least I have the decency to blame MYSELF for the fact that I can’t get laid.

Via the Miami Herald: “Florida yoga shooter was a misogynist who wanted ‘crucifixion’ for ‘American whores.’”

Can I have imposter syndrome ABOUT imposter syndrome?

I hate when you tell a therapist something and she says, “OK, well, [logic logic logic], but also that’s definitely something we’ll continue working on.”

That’s Therapist for, “Gurl, you cray.”

Pfft. Like it’s so crazy to not believe you can even HAVE “imposter syndrome” because, “Well, it’s not a syndrome — all that stuff is just TRUE.” Honestly. Goddamn hippies. 🙄

(^ See, now, that’s a joke, ‘cause I KNOW that’s kinda fucked up, so please don’t think I’m serious, and then explain the syndrome, and then make me feel like I have imposter syndrome re: effective use of sarcasm.)