“I’ll be in my bunk.”

Oh.

OH, my…

Ahem.

Cool, so… I’m gonna spend my Sunday…ummm…”worshiping.” AS THE GOOD LORD INTENDED.

Conflict of interests…

Oh, damn… Well, that was just a whole buncha stuff in my body that simultaneously twitched.

I am suddenly both horny and maternal.

It’s awkward.

Today is the new National Masturbation Day

Good morning. Work is canceled, today is for masturbation now. If Shaun T doesn’t work for you, feel free to look elsewhere — you do you (literally).

Insta-gratification

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with Instagram.

And then other times…

(@smug_singleton, if you wondered. [You didn’t.])

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 I prattled on about how I was glad I let myself enjoy food, because pfft, I’m clearly SO above those outdated ideas, and fuck it, we only get one trip through here, so we might as well have cake.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.

The Landmark Case of Penis v. Doughnut

Texting with a friend in California:

Friend: “The guy who owns the doughnut shop by my house looks a bit like Shaun T.”
Me: “Right, then. So I’ll hop a plane out there first thing tomorrow?”
Friend: “He sells Fruity Pebbles doughnut, too.”
Me: “What?! SHIT. I need that in my face. (I’ll leave it up to you whether I’m referring to the man or the doughnut. I haven’t quite decided myself.)”
Friend: “Both?”
Me: “I think it’d have to be, yeah. Man first, though — I’m gluttonous, not stupid.”
Friend: “You could try the infamous Cosmo suggestion of a doughnut on a penis.”
Me: “I was thinking that, but didn’t want to be weird.”

I’m all about supporting small, local businesses any way I can, you guys.

Fat-armed and dangerous

I’ll give my self-hatred credit: sometimes it gets really good with specifics.

I put on a sleeveless shirt, because whoo hoo, nearing 80 degrees in Philly today! Suck it, seasonal depression!

But then I got a gander at my upper arms, and… Jesus Christ, can you get arm lipo? I bet you can. I should look into that. Arm lipo sounds much easier than hoisting my fat ass off the couch, popping in a Shaun T DVD and actually, um, WORKING on it. Pfft. This IS America, isn’t it? Suck out my fat and then give me a snack.

Joking. FINE. I’ll do a pushup. FINE.

P.S. If I could do those pushups on TOP of Shaun T, I’d be far more enthused. I know, I know — he’s gay, and married. Like I’d have a shot if he weren’t. LET ME DREAM, people.

Insanitease.

Email to friends:

 

“My therapist is really into baby steps, so she’s telling me to just watch workout videos as a step toward getting myself into a workout habit.

 

“So I’m watching/listening to Insanity while I’m working, and as it turns out, I can’t just sit here with Shaun T heavy breathing, grunting, and shouting commands into my headphones.

 

“AHEM. *squirm* I think I should change over to Netflix.”

 

I am perhaps too aurally stimulated, but… “Start to warm it up. We’re going through a few exercises right now, until you’re dripping.”

 

UNF. Dripping achieved.

Working out is totally easy.

Cize it up, size me down.

I had a screening at work for insurance discounts, and I got 3 out of 4 of the available discounts — I am too fat to get the one for healthy BMI. BMI is a bunch of bullshit, but OK — mine is high, qualifying me as “overweight.”

1. Fuck you, I’m adorable. In the words of Cher Horowitz, I’m “like one of those Botticelli chicks.” (But certainly NOT a Monet.)
2. HOWEVER…it’s getting cooler and I can’t just keep wearing summer dresses and ignoring the fact that none of my pants fit.
3. I don’t necessarily care that I’m size 14; I just care that all the clothes I own are a 12. I’ll be goddamned if I’m getting dicked out of an insurance discount AND have to spend money on larger clothes.
4. Maybe I’m wasting money on therapy when all I need to do to fix a “mood disorder not otherwise specified” is have some at-home therapy with Shaun T​. (It’s not, but it can’t hurt.) (Also, mmm, Shaun T…)

I’ve resolved this here before, so if I don’t report back soon that I am once again partying in my pants, I’m going to post my address here and one of y’all has to come bust my kneecaps. Deal? Excellent. Glad we had this talk.(As a bonus, if you break my kneecaps, I can’t work out. See what I did there?)

P.S. This is going to blow numerous goats, because the weather is changing and pretty much all I want to eat is lasagna. I’m basically Garfield from November through March.

Insane in the (Vaginal) Membrane

I don’t know, Shaun T… What WILL you do with this box?

(Nothing, I know. But I dare to dream!)