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.

Congrats, OkCupid Guy: You made a woman cry. RESULT!

FIRST message from a man on OkCupid: “If you change your mind about the kid thing let me know. You do seem like a riot! :D”

*deep breath* A few things…

1. Thanks a bunch for that cheery kick in the uterus. Much appreciated.

2. So your sole criterion for a baby mama is that she’s…funny? That’s outstanding, I can’t wait to see how your kid turns out.

3. Kids are the only thing you’d need me to change my mind about? So no worries that your profile says you “want to settle down with someone who’s in it for the long haul!” but my profile says, “I’m not looking for a relationship, just casual dating.” I want to know how you arrived at the decision to message me implying I should consider becoming broodmare to a total stranger — show your work. Or do you mean we’d default to “long haul” once I accepted my role as your cum dumpster?

4. ‘Cause surely YOU’RE gonna be the guy to change my deep-seated commitment and trust issues quickly enough to plant your seed before my last, shriveled egg fades to black? Sure, let me change my not-at-all carefully considered decision about growing a PERSON in my body, raising him/her for 18+ years, shaping them into a decent human being, getting them to school by Ass Early a.m., going into MORE debt for their basic needs and education and…Artisanal Self-Actualization camp or whatever the fuck, all so I can…what, exactly? Spend my life forever tethered to a 46-year-old fuckstick in Morgantown, PA, who’s grasping at wombs as he stares down the barrel of his spawn-less mortality? Drive 90 minutes and pay Turnpike tolls so you can jam your half-flaccid cock into me and hope one of your sleepy, disoriented sperm has enough energy to sashay its way into my Danger Zone? PASS.

*exhale*

We’ll just ignore the fact that reading the message, and writing this post, legitimately upset me, and now I have to go hide in the ladies’ room until I can Irish down this ridiculous rush of emotion brought on by some aging dickhead in the boonies.

P.S. There’s nothing wrong with 46, and I know that, science-ly, y’all could knock me up just fine. I just went with impotence because I’m an ass and it’s an easy target.

Tantrum!

Yes, clearly, the way to get me back into your bed is to hit on me via my personal Facebook where MY DAD can witness your “game.”

Aren’t you proud, Daddy? He likes my rack! He called it “sexy” for you and all my former coworkers and college professors to see!

It’s perhaps egotistical of me to think that’s why he said it. But I can’t see any other reason to use “sexy” in a public forum, one in which you’ve seen me keep it clean for YEARS, and seen me interact with my family. Especially if that obviously wasn’t what I was going for; especially since the photo I’d posted didn’t show a damn thing for you to call sexy (I purposely cropped my cleavage because I’m a freak); and especially since WE BROKE UP. You don’t have “sexy” rights anymore — you don’t use that word with friends, and this is neither the time nor the place.

[/tantrum]

Where’s my inheritance, bitch?

Maybe it’s that I need to say out loud, “You need to stop talking to me and let me calm down, or I’m gonna fucking slap you.” But probably it’s that people know I’ll never actually slap them.

“What do we want?”
“We want the earth!”
“When do we want it?”
“NOW, motherfucker!”
“The meek! They want it all!”
— Eddie Izzard