My Thighs Need Their Own Zip Codes – Winter Hibernation Fat Blues

This post is brought to you by the letters P, M, and S.

While being on a “You did something reeeetarded to your back and are not allowed to do any upper body” work out plan, and having my new terminator back on backorder (hey Billy-bob, how about you hop to it, and jump to the future and steal one)… I’ve begun to expand. Like a balloon. Filled with donuts. And bacon.

In other words… There’s a lot of pants I can suddenly no longer fit. I’ve gone from curvy, to “oh my God what are you hiding in your pants?! 2 watermelons?!” (Soft watermelons? Mushy watermelon booty?) My buttocks need backup lights. My thighs are like small toddlers hanging onto my bones. I’m not positive I could pass my military weight test right now. And that’s the first time in over 10 years. Muthafrack me with a pickup truck.

I don’t trust my back anymore. My knees are somewhat shady also. They are plotting to have me fall in front of people looking like a bloated floppy manatee. Stupid back. You suck. At life.

Forget going on a date right now, I’m ashamed of myself. And it takes a lot for that to happen. I mean, I can out weird myself, out gross myself, but hardly ever is self shame. Seriously, my brainwaves are usually more fun than a bucket of monkeys (robot ninja monkeys that I plan to amass for an army, and one day take over the world).

The hibernation fat is just making me doubt myself all the time. It’s like my mental control board got stuck somehow on “PMS Mode Activate”. For anyone that says severe PMS doesn’t exist, go choke yourself with a science book. I’m insane-er during super PMS time, but FGS (Fat Girl Syndrome) has taken this to an alternate reality. I’m unhappy with how tight my pants fit, which makes me want chocolate to cure my fat heartache, and then I’m sad all over again because I just inhaled a chunky slice of chocolate cake and can feel myself expanding! Vicious cycle. On top of that, if I want to take the pain medicine, I can’t take it on an empty stomach. Well, I CAN… But one day I’m sure all the Motrin 800 I pop will catch up with me.

A work friend says cut out bread. But bread is so nummy. Especially toasted with lots of margarine, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Someone else said cut out dairy. But, but, ice cream! And cheese. And milk for my Lucky Charms!

Awww, SHITtake mushrooms. I’m screwed 6 ways til Sunday aren’t I?


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