My poochy makes me sad and my sadness makes my poochy. For the uneducated, my poochy is the thick layer of skin, fat and old socks that surrounds my midriff. My lithe young body (ok when I was 15) is now a dog-eared journal chronicling the violence of two births. I'm was a canon for two flesh bullets called Sophie and Daniel. Ok, I'm just flexing my metaphor muscle. Let me say it simply - I'm just fat and that's that. My condition is not helped by my self-medicating with caffeine and carbs (chocolate, cake, croissants, rice). Solutions are hard. (more whining to follow) I went to the gym yesterday and just felt bored. I walked out after 30 minutes of cardio and a few half hearted reps on the inner thigh sexy squeezy machines. Yeah, I can hear your judgment a mile away - you're saying get over it - there's far bigger tragedies in life than your fucking poochy. ok, but my poochy makes me sad and...
From the mouths of babes:
"Mom, I want you to put ice cream in my mouth right now!"
"Are you going to take a nap when we get home? Cuz, I want to watch my shows."
Transitions:
I need a new career. Please post your suggestions in the comment box.
Questions/observations:
I like polite coffee workers but hate it when they get too chummy with everyone in line. Why? Because it takes too fucking long to get through the line. Just say hi, how are you - get the fucking order and then move on to the next customer. In short, don't be so nice to everyone with the chitchat - we're in a big hurry! You know, to get to the mall, our house to watch TV, to go to the gym or to pick up our laundry.
