you know how so many times i get on here and scream that i need an intervention?
well, this time i’m not kidding.
i need a intervention and i need it NOW.
i’ve known for some time that my scale is a f*%#!ing liar, but now my jeans are turning against me. where the blasted scale is concerned i’ve always thought, “hmm, the sticker on the bottom of it says it’s made in germany and well, the germans secretly hate all americans (because we shave and practice good hygiene), so they’ve probably rigged it so it reads heavier–just to fuck with us.”
but people, jeans. do not. lie.
i slipped on my favorite pair yesterday (and when i say “slipped them on” i mean i wriggled about and wrangled them over my enormous ass and had to suck in to zip them up. and then i had trouble breathing…and walking.) side note: anybody missing a small calf? i found one attached to my backside. he’s cute as a button, but he cannot stay. with him there, there’s absolutely no room for the pig and i refuse to become a barn for farm animals. one animal attached to your ass is a novelty, 2 or more–chaos. and i’m pretty sure animal control would get involved. i’m no expert, but i think you need a permit for these kinds of activities.
i bent up and down and up and down, trying to stretch them out. i blamed their tightness on the fact that they’d just been washed. but then i noticed a giant queso stain on the upper thigh and was quickly able to debunk that theory. blasted holidays.
maybe the problem is the sweets that are currently atop my kitchen counters. correction, the sweets that USED to be there. i’ve single handedly taken care of them. there are none left. somehow they’ve morphed into rolls of fat on my hips and thighs.
i blame the media. no, i blame the liberal media. all this talk of hope and change has really screwed with my good sensibility. i’m the first one to say that cupcakes and all you can eat buffets are not the answer. yet, i seem to have thrown all my smartness out the window! something has to change. if not, i’m going to be featured on one of those tawdry talk shows. you know the ones. they’ll feature the fat girl (me, in this scenario) in my home where i’m a prisoner in my bed because i can’t get up. they’ll raise money for a crane to knock out a wall so that the smokin hot firemen can hoist me on a flat bed trailer and ship me off the fat camp. the audience will cheer. i’ll be so happy to feel the sunlight on my face at the same time wondering if the food is any good where i’m going.
please send help. but whatever you do, don’t send food! well, unless it’s chocolate chip cookies. i can’t resist those.
