i could be a goddamned hostage negotiator. every sunday when i am doing my shopping for the week at 7-eleven, i don't have any motherfucking children so SHUT UP ASSHOLE, and i make my way around the store, i always set my basket (contents: sunday new york times and chicago tribune, several cans of diet coke, a package of charmin extra strong, rice, two cans of green beans, and maybe an apple from the refrigerated sandwich section if they don't look too busted; same shit, every fucking week) in front of the ice cream case and have some semblance of the following debate between the lazy pig side and the indulgent asshole sides of my brain: piggy "no, bitch, you can't even look at that shit. if you buy that peanut butter cup ice cream you are going to have to do five zumbas, two kickboxing classes, and lift weights four times this week." asshole "what if i just get it and don't eat it?" piggy "is that even possible?! you know you don't have that kind of willpower." asshole "okay, i'll buy it, eat three-quarters of it, then do three zumbas and a kickboxing." piggy "wrong. eat one serving size and do four zumbas and pilates." asshole "half the pint, three zumbas, and an aqua aerobics?!" piggy "DEAL." then i take it home, feel guilty about having zero resistance for creamy frozen treats, and hide it behind the lean cuisines in my freezer until i remember it's there and finish the entire thing standing over the kitchen sink.today i am wearing pants that are six sizes smaller than the ones i was wearing six fucking weeks ago. so if you made fun of me for doing zumba you can get skull-fucked by a motherfucking grizzly bear, because that shit fucking WORKS. and i've already had bacon twice today, so rest assured that i am not starving myself. anorexia is for people who have never been poor, and i've stood in too many free hot lunch lines to ever pass up a goddamned sandwich. and i hate cocaine, so don't even think i'm doing it the chemical way. plus, that shit is expensive. i really do drag my ass to the ymca five or six times a week and try to follow your mom's feet because she really does have the choreography to "hey senora" totally memorized and i still can't get that hip swivel. every time i get paid i have to go get new pants, because wearing pants that are too big makes you look like a trash collector. this is what i'm learning from the internet when i'm not filling it with blog vomit: 1 everything you wear should be tight and have spandex and 2 push-up bras every day of the week. NO MATTER WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOK LIKE. let's just be gross and sexy all the fucking time. tight jeans, dirty hippie feet, tits up on your clavicle. life's too goddamned short.
so me and my small pants were hanging at home a couple saturdays ago, and i was standing in my tiny bathroom waiting for the stanky veet i had dripped all over the place to eat through the hair on my legs (seriously, that shit is magical and i'm going to convert you girls from the razor, just NOT TODAY) when my phone rang. i only noticed because i was using it as a timer so that toxic shit wouldn't burn through the top two layers of my fucking skin and start incinerating vital organs and, because i was in a charitable mood, i answered. it was just dumb jeff, and he immediately launched into a long, convoluted story about a whole bunch of shit i don't give a shit about. i love, like, four dudes. i mean, love them enough to be interested in anything they are talking to me about. but even then, if it goes on a second too long, i start to get fucking irritated. "i have to remove my leg hair," i interrupted. "this is why i never answer the goddamned phone." and just as i was about to hang up on him, he asked, "would you come to my weight watchers meeting today?"
i paused, despite the fact that i could feel the thioglicolic acid starting to cook the tender meat on the back of my calf. "weight watchers is for girls," i said. at that moment, smelling my seared leg flesh, helen keller slipped into the bathroom with her knife and fork. "no, i am not going to anything like that. you don't even need to lose weight, you asshole." he fed me some bullshit story about trying to get a handle on his (nonexistent) overeating problem, pretending he had "trouble spots" on his body that could be trimmed a few inches. finally it dawned on me. "YOU ASSHOLE, YOU GO TO WEIGHT WATCHERS TO FUCK SAD FAT CHICKS."
let's start here. know a lot of zaftig broads who kick ass and fuck hella dudes and aren't sad at all. but these are also women who'd be able to spot some asshole with six pack abs trolling a room full of women with a cheesecake problem for the bottom-feeding scumbag he really is. i need to say this shit for the slow girls in the back of the class: if a dude doesn't want to have to use both hands to grab your goddamned ass that's totally cool; it's his fucking choice. but that doesn't make you a piece of shit. you hoist up your fucking saddlebags and go find some dude who thinks you're rad and doesn't mind wiping the sweat off your stomach flab when you switch sex positions, babydoll. don't be all down in the dumps and let opportunists and perverts take advantage of some low self-esteem you're too awesome to have. who is keeping the month count on my celibacy? where are we at now, eighteen months? and I DON'T GIVE A SHIT, because i vowed to stop fucking around with dudes who hate me and don't laugh at my goddamned jokes. let's all promise to only suck dicks who return our emails and think we're the most amazing people ever, okay?
that said, when jeff proposed i tag along to watch him dangle his grade-A beef in the middle of a pack of starving wolverines, all i could say was, "give me twenty minutes to get some pants on."
i am one of THE MOST defensive people you will ever meet. i'm sensitive, i'm easily-provoked, i hate absolutely everything, and i scowl a lot. so of course i assumed this bitch was fucking with me. THIS DUDE RIGHT HERE is built like a goddamned adonis, yet i could easily be mistaken for early second trimester and you want to know what brings ME in?! jeff elbowed me in the kidney and i buckled at the knees before i could say something fucked up and rude. she was still standing there expectantly when i recovered, so i said, with a straight face, "well, i'm here because i've got dumps like a truck truck truck. and thighs like what what what. baby move your butt butt butt..." the light of recognition didn't turn on behind her vacant eyes, so i just looked into her blinding white teeth and said, "oh, i'm just here for the food. is it served buffet-style? i brought a bib."
we sat at the back of the room so that i would be less tempted to make a spectacle of myself and could scorn all of these people in relative private. i drank my DIET COKE and silently judged all of the terrible fashion choices in the room. the leader was one of these forty-something dudes who is chubby and soft in a feminine way, and that is a huge turnoff to me, so i couldn't focus on anything he was saying. i get hot for the middle-aged, but i couldn't stop thinking "i bet his mom bought those pants for him at kohl's" and kept getting confused about the new points system he was outlining because i he was wearing athletic socks with dress shoes. when he asked if there were questions my hand shot in the air. "how many points are in an entire pizza?" i asked.
all 1,286 chins in the room turned to glare at me. "you know, what happens if you just can't stop and you eat the whole thing? do i just add up twelve pizza slice points and not eat for three weeks?" THAT IS A REAL QUESTION. if you have one piece of pizza and can happily close the top of the box and put it in your refrigerator until the next day then maybe this is not the blog for you. BITCHES GOTTA EAT.
to his credit, he flipped through some of the papers on his lectern, ostensibly searching for an answer while i pretended to make notes on all of the introductory materials ol' wooden teeth had thrust upon me at the door. jeff moved his chair away from mine, apologizing with his eyes to all of the ladies holding their collective breath beneath their spanx. finally he gave up and told me to "email someone in corporate," which is a polite way of saying, "fuck you, bitch. do you think i gave up doughnuts to stand here sweating in front of these people while you ask questions that are beyond my scope of knowledge and blatantly goddamned ridiculous?!"
i don't know how other weight watchers meetings go, but at this one they do this thing that can only be described as FULLY-CLOTHED FOOD PORN. this woman up front in an awkwardly-fitting purple sweater dress (why do i remember these stupid details?) stood up and made a tearful confession of having eaten an entire cheesecake over the course of a day. okay, gurl. i get that. and i can't say shit, because 1 i understand how sometimes "just a sliver" and "another little tiny piece" often turn into "holy shit i ate the whole fucking thing and it's not even two o'clock" and 2 I HAVE TAKEN FOOD OUT OF THE GARBAGE BEFORE. and eaten it. everyone has a bottom. but i didn't cry about that shit, and especially not in front of a room full of people who don't fucking know me. i threw it up, tried to find my dignity at the bottome of whatever trough i'd left it in, and NEVER DID THAT SHIT AGAIN. i glanced around the room and saw other people tearing up. even the dudes. gross, man.
sweater vest, who bore a striking resemblance to carlton from "the fresh prince," told a story about demolishing a chocolate cake that was so sexual and erotic that i broke out in a nervous, titillated sweat. there were stories of food channel marathons, food hidden in glove compartments, strange binges, unhealthy obsessions with calorie counting, and one woman whose husband left after an argument about a SANDWICH. i didn't know whether to hug these people or run screaming for fear that close proximity to my succulent flesh might encourage one to take a bite out of my soft meat. man, i was uncomfortable. and i can adapt like a motherfucker, but still. these people were next fucking level. i could feel the stress diarrhea rumbling through my large intestine.
carlton made a beeline for me as soon as the meeting ended. "i know it can be difficult when you're new to the program," he said. "if you'd like to get together sometime i can help you figure out the point calculations? i'm an accountant, so i'm pretty good with numbers." maybe if i had a 1099 that needed filing that would be interesting to me, but aren't we talking about the made-up point value of soft-serve yogurt or whatever?
unless this dude thinks i'm retarded and CANNOT COUNT TO TWENTY-MOTHERFUCKING-SEVEN, he's obviously trying to schedule some sort of date. i couldn't get the image of him sticking his dick in a three-layer devil's food cake out of my fucking skull. "i hate healthy eating," i said, picturing him naked with chocolate frosting smeared on his little manboobs, flaccid penis bobbling around with moist cake crumbs clinging to it.
across the room jeff was obviously telling sandwich lady something HILARIOUS, because she was throwing her head back in that fake way people do that really means, "i would let you porn-star come on my face if you wanted to." god, i hate witnessing that stupid game bitches play when they're going to fuck each other. all that arm-touching and pretending someone stupid is interesting, BLARF. and i know you're thinking, "this hating-ass bitch is probably jealous." YOU ARE CORRECT. but not because i want to throw a bone jeff's way (i know all of that dude's dirty secrets, and i've seen him CRY BEFORE, and once you've crossed that bridge it's pretty much over, kittens), mostly because whenever there is fawning to be done, I WANT IT TO BE DONE OVER ME. i'm so great! i need some attention! just not by cakedudes who jerk off to old issues of saveur. carlton put his business card in my face, distracting me from the jeff and sandwich lady seduction dance. he glanced down at the picture of a healthy serving of green grapes that i'd turned into a dozen sets of cocks and balls and said, "call me if you ever need help figuring out a serving of pasta!" my life: SO DUMB.
when i've had enough i've had E-GODDAMNED-NOUGH, and i busted up that circle jerk of women surrounding jeff and told him to go get the fucking car. he handed me his phone, which was so hot from all of the frantic contact storage that i fucking JUMPED at its touch, and turned to hug the four women who didn't even care that he was going to bang and NEVER FUCKING CALL every single one of them. this asshole.
as i was waiting by the door for him to run across the parking lot purple dress came up to me and introduced herself. "i was so surprised to find out that you and that handsome man aren't a couple!" she lied. "seriously, girl, how could you let a fine ass piece of delicious chocolate like that slip through your fingers?!"
chocolate fine ass (pffft) pulled his car up and leaned on the horn like the giant cocksucker he is. i could see him drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. i could play nice and be a sweet little wingman but COME ON. fuck him! "that dude has herpes," i said solemnly. "you're better off fucking that cheesecake."
