Sage Advice for 2020

In my attempt to be a more well-rounded fatty (bcs apparently I’m not…well… round enough), I practically killed myself in the span of 24 hours. Somehow I managed to OD on Sage, attempt unauthorized movements of my fatty appendages via hot yoga and cool down with a frozen peppermint patty that took a chunk out of my lip. Not ideal. And before you get all judgmental about Peppermint Patties playing for the wrong team….I move to strike that sort of nonsensical talk. Anything that’s minty and less than 100 calories qualifies as a verging food. Bite me. I’d like to once again point out being fat is much easier and far less dangerous to my health than whatever version of “New Me” I conjure up. It is a new year and that’s Stranger Danger territory right there. I’ve never seen this person called “New Me.” I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. She some sort of skinny creepster lurking behind dumpsters luring me into her skinny soulless existence. Could 2020 be the year of the Soulless Creepster? God help me…

New Year New Me….talk amongst yourselves. Why is it every year we insist on torturing ourselves with a so called better version. I can’t be sure. For exactly 47 years I’ve tried to start the new year off with visions of some sort of “New Me” I have yet to make acquaintance with. She’s thin, devastatingly attractive and makes “good” choices. And you wonder why she hasn’t been seen? I’m not sure this person exists or can survive in the world as we know it. …full of judgment and unrealistic expectations. Today my local guru told me I am only responsible to be the best version of me. I fear that version is slightly chubby, makes poor choices and is super hot. So I’m 2 for 3. Almost 70%...I can live with that. If this version wasn’t so socially unacceptable I’d be putting the sage in my soup, swearing off yoga and sipping on peppermint patty milkshakes (far less dangerous than frozen discs of Heaven). So once again I started the new year conforming to the mainstream and their shit show plan for my life. Um….stop right there if you think I’m buying into one second of that craptasticness. That is in fact a word. Urban Dictionary people. Unless someone is sending Dr. “Now” (random My 600lb Life reference) to my home to threaten me with no weight loss surgery unless I miraculously lose 30lbs this month, not a lot is going to change here at 607. You don’t take 47 years of using food as a drug, a boyfriend, a counselor and anything else that suits me and expect me to change just bcs we’ve bounced into double 20’s. I need far more motivation than that. Perhaps a call from Brad Pitt…..heading my way in February for a shag….quick 30lbs gone right there.

Let’s backup to dysfunction 101. Sage overdosing. It’s all the rage. Not really. I made that up to suit my agenda. It’s what non- cool non hippie people such as myself do when trying to blame bad spirits for a sudden spike in dress size. It’s always the spirits. Evil fuckers. And to be clear there was nothing sudden about the spike in my dress size. It’s been steadily increasing. Since 1972. So I bought a bundle of sage like any normal demon possessed fatty and went about burning my house down. For the record, It would be really hard to burn your house down with a sage bundle. I know this bcs I tried. I lit up, blew the flames down to smoke out the evil fatty spirits and smudged away the chocolate remnants from my woman cave. As with most people of sizeable proportions (PC fatty) I overdid it. I really enjoyed the smell. Except it kept going out. So I lit it again. And again. And again. Then I had visions of sage incense dancing in my head. Surely, they make such a thing. I consulted my local witch Dr. and she assured me the sage bundle would accomplish this. I think people don’t “get” I need instructions with everything. Right down to pouring a glass of water. I can’t be trusted. Not with your children, your Little Debbie treats and clearly not your hippie demon smoke. I started to cough. As in I’ve smoked 20 packs a day for 20 years burning lungs kind of cough. I assumed this to be the evil spirits leaving me. However, they did not leave. My man lover (prefer this to domestic partner as it’s cause for confusion) opened the door and asked me if I was smoking weed. Interesting. Not yet. I told him I was warding off evil fat spirits with sage. Was it working? Nope. I was hungry, had a massive headache and couldn’t get the smell of smoking sage out of my nostrils. Not part of the plan.

Moving right along…..I decided I would take hot yoga. Not just any old yoga…hot yoga. Why? I can’t be sure. Part of me thought it might “unsage’ my nostrils- heat n all. I know as much about yoga as I do about sage. Frightening. I know people fart and breathe loudly whilst yogaing. So I figured it was a lot like watching a movie at my house and I sure love to do that. Sans the buttery popcorn of course. I fear the crunchies wouldn’t appreciate my bringing Orville Redenbacher to yoga and munching my way through the downward dog. See I do know a word or two about yoga. I found it very confusing. And hot. One half of the room was curled up like pretzels and the other half (me) couldn’t see their toes much less have any hope in hell of skin on skin contact with my digits. So I spent most of the hour sweating and saying “Namaste.” That’s what they do over there at hot yoga…..namaste. I think it’s code for your nasty but I can’t be sure. There were strange noises everywhere. Blabla Chattanooga (was yoga founded in Tennessee? So much to learn…) and some long words that could have used a sprinkling of vowels. I didn’t know I had to be bilingual to take yoga. I tried but fat people aren’t made to bend. We are made for caloric consumption. Other than fork to mouth there’s not a lot of bending going on. And mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full so I’m thinking I’ll leave yoga to the fine people of Tennessee.

I bring you to the treat phase of my hippy life. Because anytime fatty exits  her comfort zone there has to be a treat. And I’m not talking hippy treats better known as Chai pudding. What the actual fuck is that shit?! It looks like eyeballs floating in brain matter. #scarredforlife. I went back to my people to claim my reward. A good old fashion peppermint patty….or 12. Frozen. The only acceptable way to eat one. If you haven’t tried this you should be throat punched immediately if not sooner. I have strong feelings on the subject. As with any extrafatacular activity, you should approach with caution. Frozen can equal danger if one were overly food aggressive. Which “one” is or “one” wouldn’t be in this predicament. As soon as my body temperature came down from 170 degrees of Namaste, I dove in the freezer for said treat. I told myself I was having heat stroke and death was eminent. So yeh….when you all but inhale a frozen patty and attempt to bite into it prior to at least some of the frozen loveliness getting a mild thaw….bad things happen. In this case, I had a nice dental mold of my front 3 teeth implanted in my lip. You cannot hope to seek care for such an injury. What would you say? I overdosed on sage, went to hot yoga, got overheated and stuck my entire head in the freezer and clamped down too hard on a peppermint patty. I think calling CPS is mandated even for adults in this compromising situation. Or perhaps Dr. Now shows up and shames you into stiches and rehab. I can’t be sure bcs I called no one. I marveled at my glorious injury in the mirror until even I couldn’t believe I was free to walk amongst humans.

What have I learned from my day as a hippy? I can’t be sure. For starters sage is not your friend. Stick to soups and roasted chickens. They are both delicious and mask the evilness of this potent herb of the devil. Yoga. Hot yoga. Cold Yoga. No Yoga. All that is me may not be ready to be roasted at 170 degrees and served hot as a pretzel. Clearly I need the yoga Cliff Notes and time to study up on Tennessee’s involvement in the matter. I have nothing but love for the frozen peppermint patty. Beat me, leave marks and make me scream. I am your bitch. You never disappoint. There’s no threat of overdose, your love language is mint (shedding a tear) and nothing could be cooler.

The Icing on the Cake...

Big girl is back. Fat, miserable and extra bitchy. I can’t imagine why I’m still single. I’ve been frozen like some sort of dysfunctional popsicle without a stick. Which for the record, I prefer. Who wants to taste that nasty tongue depressor flavor after licking the hell out of a creamsicle? That’s a hard no right there. In any event, I’ve thawed my snarky self out and am ready for random overshares as the mood strikes me. Let’s pause for a visual: Picture a large half naked woman, hair flying all over, make up smeared on her face, lips shining brightly with chicken grease and a 2-week-old red wine stash. She’s exercising… running down the street in search of a post consumption sugar buzz. That’s me on a good day. Now, let’s add an obstacle course of cancer, death and stress to the mix. That’s me for the last…oh say 5 years. So I froze. And now I’m unfreezing. Yes, I am aware I slay the Kings English quite often. Get over it. If you are looking for proper grammar and punctuation, go read a book. I speak the way I think. And my thoughts can be frightening at times. They come from the inner fatty living inside all of us. Oh, and I cuss a lot, ramble on and no I don’t think your fat. You do. That’s why you are reading this. You are being ruled by your inner fatty and that hooker is intense. If you haven’t read my musings before, buckle up bitches.

I’d like to tell you whilst on hiatus I found Jesus, Little Debbie or any of the pounds I’ve been trying to lose for the last oh 46 almost 47 years. None of that in fact happened. I did not need to find Jesus. As far as I know he’s not missing. No need to look for Debbie either. She’s currently in my pantry in the form of Swiss Cake Rolls. I’m of European decent. You understand. Speaking of cake, I won one. Yes, that happened. I often throw my name in the hat for various raffles. Boats, cars, exercise equipment…you name it. Let’s talk about how many boats, cars and pieces of exercise equipment I’ve actually won. Right. So it’s only fitting I would win a cake. It’s pointless, bad for me and affords the giver a rare opportunity to call out my inner fatty in public. Picture the winner of the multimillion dollar Powerball who bought one ticket, on a whim at a gas station they never go to. That kind of enthusiasm. But for cake. Listen I can’t keep that bitch in when she hears her name and cake in the same sentence. She’s a sleeping butter cream beauty. If memory serves you, you’ll recall how much I LOVE cheap grocery store cake. The cheaper the better. I’m low end and proud. Sugar is my crack and Pookie’s freak flag is always flying high.

To make matters extra interesting, I won the cake at a work event. An event I didn’t really want to go to. Lots of “people-ing.” Too much small talk and overpromising whatever it is I do during daylight hours. I’ve developed some sort of strange hermit like tick that typically keeps me from attending such functions. Turns out this would be my lucky day. I threw my name in the hat for several items I felt I deserved. Wine, vacations, gift baskets etc. I would never willingly attach my name to cake in public for fear of...well exactly what happened. However, the local grocer was peddling cake samples and suggested I throw my name in to win a free custom cake. What I heard was: “You know you want this cake. I can almost see you eating it on your couch whilst watching the Biggest Loser talking about what you are going to do differently on Monday.” I know this to be true because he approached me exactly one too many times with various sugary samples signaling, he knew who I really was. Fucker. I’d like to think I do an outstanding job hiding my inner fatty. Apparently not. I declined the first few samples citing my healthy lifestyle. What? I powerwalk, thank you very much. After watching everyone suck the icing off their fingers for the hundredth time, I broke down. Is it inappropriate to have an orgasm at a work event? I should think so. I opted for the HR friendly option and ate the damn sample cake. Sample cakeS. And yes, just like an addict one bite had me throwing my name into a drawing for what felt like a lifetime supply of cake. I had lost my shit. As names were called for various prizes, I was secretly plotting what diet would help me shed a quick 60 for my impeding trip to Aruba by way of the overly chatty man to my right who was raffling it off. Nope. Not in the cards. Ok Plan B. Where was I going to put all the wine I was about to win? I mean, I try to hide the good stuff from my friends citing the comeback of boxed wine. Nope. No need to hide anything. Yet. Never heard a word from the cake crowd so I assumed I had been spared public humiliation and unfortunately the sugar coma I dreamed of. Or so I thought.

I bring you to two weeks later when the thought of cake…well I was still thinking of cake just not that cake…had left my mind. Imagine my surprise when the grocer called to tell me I’d won. What I heard: “We are doing you a hot favor fatty and calling to privately inform you of your win.” Ouch. Am I not worthy of going down in a blaze of glory behind a cheap supermarket cake? Apparently not. I may have screamed “I won I won” a bit too loudly. My co-workers assumed I had finally won the Powerball and were vying for my corner office. I never win anything. It was cause for much excitement. Don’t judge. And not for nothin’ I wasn’t trying to share said cake so I really needed to tone it down a shad. This wasn’t any free cake. It was a free CUSTOM cake. Whoa. Like winning the penny slots. Things don’t instantly compute causing undo excitement. All the “people-ing” had paid off. I ended up taking the cake to a family function bcs I couldn’t come up with an excuse to sit in the closet long enough and eat the whole thing myself. True story. This would have been a good place to end my version of winning the lottery. However, the madness continued.

Because of my mad “people-ing “ skills that particular evening, the grocer knew my name. A name he would soon change, much to my dismay. I kindly thought of him as “The Cake Man.” Thoughts = Inside Voice. Meaning I never verbalized this to him. The “Cake Man” worked in the produce section. Not dreamy enough for the bakery I suppose. Every time I went to said grocery store he was there….waiting to greet me affectionately as “The Cake Lady.” Dare I say at a volume used exclusively when announcing her Royal Highness. Less than ideal. The Queen of Fat is not currently seeking followers, thank you. Inside Voice Cake Boy. I’m confident I didn’t accept any sort of proposal other than the free cake, so merging our names in wedded confection did not please me. And for all the obvious reasons I didn’t want to be referred to as the “The Cake Lady” in front of the judgey supermarket crowd. I work damn hard to keep all that is me between the seams and I don’t need the grocer outing me in the veggie aisle. Did I mention they put nuts on my cake? Pissed me off. I’m not your nut friend. Do not put nuts in or on my cake. It gave me cause to ask for a replacement but even I thought that a shad food aggressive. I mentally dropped him down a notch after outing me and putting nuts on my cake. I assumed he was responsible based on his reckless disregard for my FAT-animity. Lest I dredge up the trauma of the pet name I could have gone my whole life without hearing again. So, what have I learned from my brush as a big winner? I will continue ordering cakes online under the guides of “someone’s birthday” knowing the “Cake Lady” prefers closet eating to “people-ing.” The only door prize I need is the door closing behind me so I can eat my cake in peace. Amen

Coming soon....

A new blog about my inappropriate relationship with food....insert shock factor.

What's the Point?....I'm back!

Repost!

I’m on a diet (Pause for shock factor). A SIF once told me, “You have to be hungry to lose weight.” Hunger makes me angry. Nothing should keep me from the foods I love. If you expect me to be a happy salad eating hooker, you should seek another outlet for your delusions of grandeur. I’m angry. And hungry. No good can come of this. You know…every so often whilst writing this blog, a SIF randomly messages me a nugget of greatness….a chicken nugget if you will… dipped in hot mustard…my favorite. I give you the following text just in from a SIF we shall call “Mandrea” (names changed to protect the fatties)…ughum…”Is it bad that I just licked the crumbs from the bottom of my snack bag?” To which I replied, “Absolutely not. You make me proud.” I couldn’t buy better friends. Except Little Debbie. She’s cheap and delicious. “They” say you are the 5 people you hang around. I guess that means I’ll be licking crumbs in short order. I’ll spare you the details on the other 4. Try as I might…these little mind fucks you must adhere to in order to lose weight do not work on this SIF. Exhibit A: “Nothing tastes as good as skinny looks.” Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Exhibit SIF: Grab a #2 Combo, a picture of Angelina Jolie and head for a mirror. Open mouth, insert #2. Now look at Angelina whilst savoring your delicious #2. Tell me she looks better than a #2 tastes…I dare you. SIF 1…Stupid sayings made up by starving people desperate to lose weight…0

I’ve tried every diet in the book. Time for a new book. I’m no quitter. I fear that’s what pushed me out of acceptable BMI range. That and Taco Bell. God I miss you Taco Bell. Everything lovely wrapped in a warm, cheese-filled tortilla. Clearly dieting is worse than death. Why must I be kept from the things I love? I digress. I don’t like to be told what to do. However, when it comes to dieting…I need a full on drill instructor 25 hours a day. I’m a good little exerciser (as long as fat back isn’t keeping me down). The issue is hunger…and cravings and I hate healthy food. To the quinoa and veggie crowd…I’m calling you out. There’s just no way you really like eating that shit. I realize its good PR for your healthy agenda but come on….tell me a little bacon and fried chicken doesn’t moisten you up a bit?! They can’t be trusted. Check their closets…chicken bones falling out by the dozen. I guarndamtee it (that was for you sweets). I went back on the points. I figure I’ve watched my weight increase for months…might as well go on Weight Watchers and let someone else watch it. It’s militant. The fatter you are the more points you get. This information should not be at my disposal. I’ve already found a way around the system…lie about my weight. I’m a pro at that. I ask you, who lives on 26 points? One piece of fried chicken and I’m done for the day! What about my wine? I could easily use all my flex points drinking vino on a Monday night! I’d like to know who’s responsible for coming up with the point allocation. The Skinnagers, the ¼ Pounders…the quinoa crowd. The possibilities are endless. I’m now their bitch.


Two words. Portion Control . Three words. Pain level high. I never really thought of myself as an over eater. However comma, when you are forced to portion out your food, you realize quite quickly what an aggressive over eater you actually are! Who eats these pint size portions? Allow me to answer that…newborns! I fear I got more from mothers boob than I do from Weight Watchers! And not for nothin she was/is a minus A cup! Sorry Mother. You started this mess. Think twice before you hide your M&M’s in my desk again woman. So I’m making one of “their” recipes…which by the way actually contains a fair amount of acceptable ingredients…like cheese and pie crust. The issue…you get just enough to make you want to car jack someone at the drive thru and steal their #2! “They” say wait 20 minutes and you will feel full. I say…I could wait 3 days and a “normal” portion would fail to complete me! It did not have me at hello, goodbye or anything in betwixt! Clearly there should be some sort of “scaling down” for the morbidly obese such as myself. Like…give me 100 points and let me work my way back. I’m running around like Pookie from New Jack City trying to beg, borrow and steal points from fellow Weight Watchers! It’s not attractive. My ousting from the Weight Watchers online community is eminent. I fear I may be an addict.

Food makes me happy. I wake up thinking about what I’ll have for lunch, dinner and everything in between. When these thoughts are ripped from my brain and replaced with random mind control…I mean portion control, I get evil. What is there to look forward to? Really? No drinking, no eating, stopping before I’m full. Fat is way better. If only there was a better word for it. I fear I’m beyond curvy. Plus size might work. I think that’s a size 2 these days. Can’t we just bring back the 50’s when women had curves, never worked and men were fine with all of it as long as they were being fed and serviced?! I’m willing to give up equal rights for food. It’s come to that. Jenny Craig and her team of feminists will just have to take a back seat to my food aggression. And Weight Watchers too! My sweet says he loves me no matter what. That’s code for “I’m currently looking for your replacement big girl.” Can’t have that. So much pressure to step away from the fork when all I want to do is stab people with it! I’m a glutton for punishment…a talking scale (complete with a bitchy tone) and points. I fail to see the point.

Scaled Down

And by no means am I speaking of the aforementioned diet. I have since broken up with dieting. Or perhaps it broke up with me. I can’t be sure. One thing I can be sure of, the need for new scales. The old ones seem to be stuck. Aint that some shit? Trying to move Heaven and Earth and all that is me a little further south…can’t even get an ounce. I jump on, jump off, make a movement, jump on, jump off, pluck an eyebrow, jump on…nothing. They must be made in China or something. Can’t be sure. The Chinese are thin. They shouldn’t be allowed to make scales. They don’t eat cheese. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t eat cheese. We should only entrust such delicate numerical calculations to the SIF. The numbers would certainly be more favorable. There would be some sort of algorithm to allow for “Not so New Me Monday” and “Feral Fatty Friday.” Whilst I realize the Chinese are far superior in math, they are not well versed in fat. This is not something one can learn at MIT. No. You need hands on experience from FAT.

I’ve solved all the world’s problems. Or at least mine…for the moment. I purchased new scales. Talking scales. Yes, I really did this. They speak German, Spanish, French…and I think English. I can’t be sure it matters. My grand master plan to feel better about all that is me…have my weight recited in a language I do not understand. It’s fuckin genius. That’s what $64 will buy you…genius. And a lifetime warranty in case they start talking shit. I fear even 300 pounds will sound like music to my ears when Little Dutch Debbie yodels my fadigits in a foreign tongue. I need to figure out a way to wipe out the English bitch before she gets out of hand. You know how Americans are. Oversharers. There’s no room for oversharing at the international house of weight loss. Something about that last line gave me a craving for pancakes. I love pancakes. I once bought an entire gallon of strawberry syrup from IHOP so I could binge eat in private. Turns out the shit gets moldy unless you consume a stack a day. I could never do that. Wouldn’t leave any room for Taco Bell. I heart Taco Bell. Been there twice this week. It’s shameful. I realize this. I had to pretend there were 6 other people in the car in order to justify the caloric catastrophe that was being passed through the drive through window. Yes, I gave a fake shout out to the people in the back seat that weren't in fact there. Don’t judge. We’ve all done it. I digress.

Weighing ones options is always better than weighing oneself (bumper sticker material- noted). Bigger clothes or better scale? The choice is obvious. I already have bigger clothes. I like to refer to them as “my wardrobe”. One learns to never throw away such valuables. Just like my 80’s clothes, they remain. Hanging next to the clothes with the tags on them (also from the 80’s) that “New Me” will eventually wear. I can’t remember the last time I saw “New Me.” I think it was on a milk carton. Or maybe it was heavy cream. I can’t be sure. It’s quite possible I’ve never even met new me. She’s a shad elusive. I come from a long line of over eaters. “New Me” wasn’t welcome at our table. Bitch fuck around and get stabbed with a fork talkin about some “New Me.” Mother hid “New Her” well. I tried to get a peek at her once. She was holed up under a large green house coat stained with Heavenly Hash (Nectar of the Gods… random sign of the cross). Dad ripped that coat off her a time or two. I told myself he was overcome by madness at the thought of seeing “New Her”. Turns out he just wanted sex. Go figure. I guess multiple personalities need love too. And so she continued to hide 10lb bags of peanut M&M’s in my desk drawer. And I continued to fail math. Chocolate stains on my algorithms. Less than ideal. Perhaps I should have been a Chinese exchange student. No looking back now. Hooked on the cheese.

So I’m stuck with an hour glass figure with a few too many hours. What’s a girl to do? Kill time. Not as easy as it sounds when binge eating as a sport is your only form of entertainment. I could do things the hard way making everything good to me dead to me. Nah. I’m too smart for that. I’ve got a cousin losing weight hand over fork by putting some sort of pregnancy hormone under her tongue. I find this frighteningly acceptable. If I didn’t fear some sort of random offspring as a result of said drops, I might try it myself. But why? I am the proud owner of the solution to an international crisis. Whilst all you suckers graze on grass and jog, I’ll be frolicking with the French and dunking donuts with the Dutch. When in Rome…do as the Romans. When fat…buy new scales! It’s pure genius.

*** Dedicated to Lizzie and Laurie...may you smile again***

Tribute

This blog is dedicated to Tara & Mark... May you turn water to wine in Heaven until we meet again. RIP !

Fatty Fo' Life

I’m 2 weeks into a life sentence. “New Me” would like a conjugal visit from "Old me"….post haste. I would kill for a fry. I would dip said fry in ranch dressing and lick it like it was Brad Pitt’s….fry. Probably the reason I’m on diet death row. I’m a lying, cheating fat whore of an over eater. It’s less than attractive. Confession Time: “Forgive me Fatties for I have sinned…. it’s been….um never….since my last confession. I eat the food stuck in between my teeth…and not always immediately. I am a big fan of marination.”*** I’m not sure that’s a word…marination. I’m sure it’s in the ghetto dictionary. The act of marinating…marination. It’s a verb. I enjoy breaking verbs. Back to the confession*** “I don’t floss….I consume. 1 out of 9 dentists recommends it. In any event, please give me my fatty penance. Its snack time and I’m food aggressive. Amen.” There’s a separate Jesus for Fatties. I saw him once…at Krispy Kreme…he appeared just beneath the “Hot and Now” sign. Had I not been in a full on sprint for a cruller, I might have snapped a picture or called Dateline or something. I digress

I’m losing weight. You should stop reading my blog immediately if not sooner. I am no longer one of you. Yeah whatever. I’m a fatty through and through. I bleed Crisco. I miss Crisco. So many uses. None of which involves sunbathing… Mother. Yes, she did that. And yes, she stuck her tongue on a frozen railing and was amazed to learn it actually stuck. Perhaps she was hungry. She’s touched…what can I say? She’s the original SIF…show some respect. They weren’t running the short bus back then. I don’t even think they had cars. I can’t be sure. In any event, I come from a gene pool lacking in…skinny jeans. I think about food ALL THE TIME. And no not bcs I’m on a diet. Because I’m a SIF…duh. Fat Back keeps me from running….and losing weight and being freaky and marrying Brad Pitt. Fuckin back. I walk. I’m a walker. Said with the same enthusiasm I reserve for dieting. Walking leaves too much time for thinking. I think about food. This should not be shocking. I just said it two sentences ago. Stay with me. Whilst walking to burn calories, I often fantasize about the next round of calories. “What will I eat when I’m done with this stupid walking shit? Did I burn enough calories to eat ranch? Did my pulse move one beat beyond the diet pill I just burped up? “These cannot be normal thoughts. And by normal I mean... I don’t know what I mean. I’m not in fact normal and I'm quite sure I wouldn’t recognize it if I saw it. There must be people out there who take this shit seriously… exercising to be healthy n all. I think they call them annoying.

I’m swallowing all sorts of pills and powders assuring me an early release from the pen. I’m convinced they do nothing more than make me bitter my fat ass had to pay for potions to guilt me into submission as I am a frugal fatty who doesn’t waste money on anything that doesn’t end in…donut (yes, that was a run on sentence). I’d buy a dozen in a hot minute, eat 4 and throw out the rest swearing it was my last affair with sugar. Lying whore (please refer to paragraph one for previous admission). But don’t ask me to pay for anything that sounds like diet and not expect me to jump on the scale every 2 hours to assess my return on investment! I may not have formal learnin skills…but I gots mad fat skills…which is marketable to exactly no one other than the SIF reading this blog. I thank you for that. I’ll be taking up a collection pending my early release. I would like to mix my potions with Coke…and not the kind you snort. I think that’s already in there. Cola. They frown upon that. Fuckers. Mix it with water. Coincidently that’s also how I wash my ass. Do you see the connection? Shit. There…I made it for you. I’m realizing I eat for just about any reason. Because I woke up. Because it’s noon. Because I smelled something good. Because someone said the word “Lunch” (makes me salivate every time). I fear I am a full on food addict. Yes, I’m the Pookie of Popeyes. I will stab you with a fork for fried chicken. And don’t line jump at the Long John Silvers. I most likely had to travel well out of my way for LJS…I will cut chu. Thank you Mother for not only taking me there every Saturday but for insisting on extra crunchies. Nothing spells mother of the year like extra morsels of saturated fat for your young.

Time to kill the overly violent tone with some good news. I’m down 6 pounds. 6 pounds in 2 weeks does not a Jenny Craig endorsement make. Who cares… I’m not on Jenny Craig. She’s not my type. And I prefer the bottom. No fries in 2 weeks. I’m surprised they haven’t had to shoot me up with some sort of anti-seizure medication. Perhaps my love of fries has been overshadowed by my love of wearing shorts in the summer. Mine are currently a shad snug. Ok snug might be a little lenient…camel toe would be the appropriate visual. Camels belong in the dessert…not my panties. In any event, I do miss a fry. *** Whilst I am typing away trying to earn a living as a creative genius who makes exactly no money amusing you…my better half is out in the living room defiling a bunny rabbit. Oh he thinks he can hide the random snacking from me…not so much. I’m on a diet for the love of God! I can hear the crackle of a chocolate bunny being undressed from its tinfoil wrapping and the nibbling of little chocolate ears a mile away!!!!! I think I just had a moment….back to the diet***I’m not sure what’s worse…the no eating or the no drinking. I love to eat…I love to drink. I have no outlet for my stress. No running…no drinking…no eating. I’m clearly going to die.

I’m out of the cleanse phase. I’m not exactly sure what happened in the cleanse phase. I thought I would be shitting or shaking or sweating or something. Nope. Just uneventfully hungry. I’m now in the Slim phase. I'm hopeful for some additional excitement. I’m drinking fiber…like old people who can’t shit. Except I shit on the regular. I can’t imagine how I could be any more attractive than I am at this very moment. I refuse to weigh myself this week. Aunt Flo is visiting. I’ve never once invited that bitch into my life yet she shows up, every month bringing all her baggage. I should just lock the door. I don’t like being tricked. If I gain 1 pound, I’m bound to make a mad dash for a #2. Might not mix well with the fiber. 13 days might be the longest I’ve stuck with a diet. Hell, Tuesday was my record up until now. I’m not going to say I haven’t cheated…we covered this…lying whore n all. For the most part I’m behaving. Don’t worry…I’m not buying into that crazy bullshit about replacing fries with sweet potato fries and apples make a great snack. To that I say…screw you! The only kind of fry I eat comes from a white potato… if that makes me a fry racist…so be it. The only apple I’m eating is draped in a luscious fritter coating. I love apple fritters… thank you for that as well…mother. All that missing change from your purse…yup I took it. Had to have the fritters you introduced me to. Where was CPS when I was growing up? They should have carted her off…Crisco tan and all! I think I’ll go back to my fatty ways and spend my remaining time blaming Mother. I’m innocent.

Fatvocate

Fat Back is killing me. I need to be mobile in a way that doesn’t involve driving to McDonald’s. I was already really good at that. In fact, should the Olympic Committee choose to add a “fastest time from drive-thru to consumption” category, I’d win hands down. Add in the extra measures taken to avoid being tagged as a repeat offender and I’m qualifying as the world’s greatest athlete… ever. Its borderline crude how quickly I can inhale a number 2. My only issue to date… sesame seeds. No one likes sesame seeds in their Number 2. Or maybe they do? I find it highly evidentiary. I realize that word has more than enough syllables to trip up the common fatty. Fatsplanation…it’s hard to back up a trip to the gym with seeds in your teeth …and the remnants of a Number 2 on your face. Evidentiary. You’re missing my point…or maybe I’m missing my point. I can’t be sure I have a point. My point is…I need to move around and my Fat Back is keeping me down. Two things stand out on my discharge paperwork: A. Take all drugs as prescribed. Check. 2. Have sex immediately. Check. Set aside all the sex and drugs…I’m bored. I find myself popping blackheads for entertainment. I can’t imagine this is attractive or calorically advantageous. Yet somewhere in SIF land, one of you is asking Siri how many calories are burned popping the imperfections on your pretty faces. Thank you for that. I’ll be coming out with apparel to match your sadistic behavior this fall. Watch for it.

When I’m bored and can’t go anywhere, I go on a diet. Why not? That counts as a” somewhere” here in SIF land. The tricky part …finding a diet I haven’t tried and or failed at. There’s always that fucking ridiculous notion of just eating healthy. Who comes up with this shit? Just eat healthy. Just stop drinking. Just quit smoking. Just work out more. OH….Ok! Just shut the fuck up! Pardon my Fatty French. Stupid people make me aggressive. I tried “Fatkins” a few weeks ago (key words being tried and weeks ago). I thought it to be a good fit for all that is me. Bacon, ranch, steak…clearly Dr. Atkins is a BIF. I’m not sure how anyone loses weight on this “diet.” Even I felt like a whore rolling in bacon grease after 1 week. I’m not suggesting that to be a bad thing. I just need something a tad more virginal to offset my already whorish nature. Perhaps it was the ban on wine? In fact it was. Don’t ask me to choose between wine and bacon. Life just isn’t tolerable when you’re sober and fat trying to be skinny. It’s maddening. However, there’s always turkey bacon. If you like that shit. Me…I went back to wine and chocolate. In fact, I didn’t waste time cooking bacon and waiting for dessert. Nope. I stocked up on chocolate bars infused with bacon. If you can’t smell it and you can’t find the wrapper…it never happened. It’s fucking genius. I am the self-sabotage queen of the world. Take that Dr. Fatkins.

So my friend Kaitie (her name has not been changed as I intend to publicly out her if I do not lose weight), pedals Advocare. I know. It sounds like a Geriatric rest home for people who shit their brains out. I’ll let you know if that comes to fruition. It’s a 24 day cleanse. Can you guess what my non-committal self likes about this right from jump? 24 days. I like to convince myself I can do anything for 24 days. That’s a stretch…and not the stretching I should be doing. Stay with me here…diet = lying to yourself. I’ve convinced “old me” I can be “New Me” in just 24 short days. Old me rode the short bus and falls for such nonsense. I intend to blame Katie when/if new me isn’t front and center in 24 days. I’m not sure she signed up for that. What are friends for? I can’t be sure. I don’t presently have any. Unless you count the Fat Train Fatties. Exactly my point. I will allow her a shameless plug before I throw her under the short bus. Should you care to join in the madness, you can check out Katie’s site at https://www.advocare.com/140136246. Send me a meal bar. I’m hungry. You’ll be most pleased to know my kit came over a week ago. I started today. What? It came on a Tuesday. SIF Rule #4567…don’t start dieting on any day other than Monday. It can wait. I think I may have gained 20lbs last week. It’s not easy getting in a case of wine and all the contraband on my list in less than 7 days. I have yet to find a diet that allows for the unlimited consumption of fried chicken and macaroni and cheese. I just wiped drool off the monitor, fyi. This my sisters is one of the side effects of dieting. Drool. Much like anal leakage, it’s not socially acceptable. 23 more days. The plan seems fairly normal in that you can eat normal food. That is unless you’re not normal. Normal food makes me hungry. And cranky. And gassy. 23 more days. I’ve been peeing a lot. Random overshare.

As Queen Fatty it is my duty to test out any possible solution to binge eating as a sport. Consider it cross training if you will. Someone once told me skinny looks better than fat tastes. Spoken like someone who eats turkey bacon and jogs. I’m a full on fatty with a closet full of new clothes for someone who doesn’t in fact exist. Unless my inner fatty turns out to be a size 2 with a fetish for 70’s clothes, I’m screwed. Will I ever accept Forever 2X as my own? Will the geriatric shitting diet reveal a whole new me? Could I really compete in the Fatlympics? Do people really eat Chia Seeds? What is a Chia seed? I can’t be sure. The only thing I know for sure is that diet is a dirty word. I’m rolling in shit to prove to the SIF you can wear a bikini with a scratch and dent ass. The things I do for you. Sisters….I don’t claim to be all knowing. If your inner fatty has found her way to the pound, please advise. I may be in the market for a stray.

Can't touch this

If you think for one minute the aforementioned Fat Back incident kept me from the annual servicing of my “Mercedes,” think again. You’ll recall, this SIF doesn’t take her “Mercedes” to Jiffy Lube. That shit goes right back to the dealer. Said dealer happens to be in the Nation’s Capital. Very fitting, as she happens to be commander and chief of all that is me. Presidential Puss, if you will. In any event, it was time to hit the road. I make it a rule to never travel alone. No, not because I am afraid some random stranger posing as a cop will pull me over, hack me up and put me in a barrel never to be seen again. Ok maybe it crossed my mind. Clearly I need to ease up on the Dateline. No, because I need someone to blame when I end up at McDonald’s after endless conversations about needing to lose weight. It doesn’t exactly work when you talk to yourself about losing weight, yourself agrees, only to convince you it can wait until after a juicy combo #1, super-sized. I gave the leading role in this comedic tragedy to “Mandrea” (SIF/NIF/HIF). Much like me, she’s kind of a big deal.

“Mandrea” and I had been separated for quite some time due to my Fat Back. Whilst I was away, she was busy trying to create “New Her.” I didn’t appreciate that shit one bit. Nothing I couldn’t destroy in one weekend of binge eating. Bla Bla “I don’t drink and I’m counting points.” Not anymore sister. Not anymore. Road Trippin with Queen Fatty trumps all that shit. For reals? We hadn’t been on the road long before I got hungry. Shocking? I thought not. You should know by now, the sole reason I love driving anywhere is the thought of stopping for food that would otherwise be deemed unacceptable. I should back up and tell you I was supposed to be on the Atkins Diet. Key word being supposed to. Ughum. So “Mandrea” had her points to deal with and I had…my conscience. As if this has ever deterred me. SIF trick #4321: Always let the passenger pick the graze. This allows for guilt free consumption…on my part. She picked Wendy’s. Great…the little redhead demon with the pony tails and bad fries. For some reason people think Wendy’s is healthy. As much as the Chika Filet people are churchy, I suppose. In any event, I actually had a craving for a grilled chicken sandwich. Yes, I said grilled. I was equally as shocked. I knew we would be having a full on fat fest later that night with SIF #3. This allowed for a semi healthy flash of insanity. Part of me didn’t even want fries. Clearly a replacement part. Not wanting to eat up all her points, (bcs she still hadn’t figured out just how far she would be in the hole after a weekend with me), she ordered some sort of dollar wrap. I can’t remember the last time I ate something that cost a dollar. Oh, yes I can. Her name was Little Debbie and she was delicious. Don’t judge. It’s legal in several states.

As luck would have it, the Fatty God’s were not amused by my random brush with healthiness. So…they made sure I had a cheeseburger. A bacon double cheeseburger to be exact. I had broken SIF rule #6754: Never leave the drive through without checking your bag. This rule was designed to prevent a SIF from ending up with something healthy. And it worked…without even checking. I hadn’t even left the parking lot when I discovered the bait and switch. So, what’s a fatty to do? I picked the bacon off. That counts for something. I could barely hear over the sound of my own chewing. I needed something to get my mind off the fact I actually wanted something healthy and was knee deep in a double bacon cheeseburger…minus the bacon. So, I asked “Mandrea” to tell me all about the points. Mostly so I could figure out how I could derail her. And then she handed it to me. Another gift from the Fatty God’s. Two in one day. That’s pretty good. “Oh my Gawd (insert Pittsburgh accent)! I forgot my wallet.” Oh my Gawd is right! You are now at the mercy of this SIF. Every meal, every drink, every suckin (that’s for you Mother) point would be controlled by me. Screw you Weight Watchers. Queen Fatty calls check mate! Of course I said something to the effect of, “Don’t worry, I got your back.” Literally. And her back would be slightly larger after this mishap.

After hours spent in rush hour traffic, listening to the sounds of “How many cuss words can I spew in a 2 mile radius,” we arrived at SIF #3’s house. She wasn’t home from work yet. She text me the following, “I’ll be home at 5:45pm. Do you want to eat right away?” Clearly we had been separated too long. So I went with it. “Yes, I’ve hardly eaten anything all day.” I knew SIF#2 turned Weight Watchers trader couldn’t bust me. If you don’t say it out loud it never happened. Off we went to one of my favorite restaurants. And early enough not to wait for a table. As you are aware, food aggression is a problem for me. “Mandrea” was trying to figure out how many points were in this and that. I told her she could borrow some of my points to put with the 47 bonus points she gets per week. Problem solved. And you wonder why I can’t go on a diet? I drink more than 47 points in a single sitting. When they come out with a wine friendly diet for the food aggressive fatty, ring me up. In the meantime, I’ll have everything from the left over. We had sautéed muscles, Caesar salad, pasta, wine, wine and wine. To my dismay, no dessert. I never answer that question when asked. My answer is always yes. The rest of the general population claims they are too full. I call bullshit. The day you are too full for sugar is the day I go friend shopping. I realized it was what had to happen and insisted we go to the wine store so I could drink my remaining points. Clearly delusional. I had to be up early to “take my car to the shop.” The part where I gave no thought to binge eating the night before the weigh in, should tell you how much this fat back incident has affected my few remaining brain cells. I just didn’t care. I had the perfect excuse for weight gain. Fat back.

We woke at the crack of my ass to ensure we made it to the dealer on time. SIF#3 was kind enough to leave us an Atkins and a gluten free bar. Nice gesture but I never eat before a weigh in…unless it’s the night before, apparently. Besides, we had a whole eating agenda of Dr.’s that didn’t include Dr. Atkins or Dr. Gluten free. I warned “Mandrea” about evil receptionist at the “dealer.” I think she thought I was exaggerating, until I left her alone with her for 30 minutes to get my undercarriage analyzed. I travel 5 hours, once a year to have my girl serviced and she likes to tell me she won’t take an out of state check for my $25 co-pay or call me to remind me of my appointment because it’s long distance. If she wasn’t old and blind, I would have opened my robe in the front, walked into her area and exposed all that is me. She would then be a mute and all my problems would be solved. Instead, I just left her with “Mandrea.” I haven’t seen dumb nurse in 2 years. After yesterday’s binge eating incident, I certainly could have used her. Nope. I got reoccurring militant nurse. I asked her to weigh me in Kilo’s throwing in something about that’s how they do it at Duke. She wasn’t amused. While I lay there naked, with my socks on, robe opened in the front for penetration…I mean examination, I thought to myself, “No woman could possibly feel skinny in this getup. I don’t care who you are.” Bright lights, backless robes and metal puss openers lying around. No good can come of this. I decided to work on my “this is why I’m fatter than you’d like me to be” speech. In walks Dr. Hottie. I forgive him for his over talking because he’s handsome and knows stuff. My standards just aren’t that high. He said my blood pressure was good and I’d only gained 1lb since last year. I decided I wouldn’t go into my dissertation on the weight of fat vs. muscle and how I clearly should weigh less given my level of movement over the past 2 months. He was pleased and that’s all that mattered. Call me crazy, I’m a pleaser when it comes to the puss. He asked me about my Fat Back and I obliged with stories of venereal crabs running about in my back. He understood and agreed I should just keep eating as much as I wanted until I was healed. Or maybe I passed out from the cold specula in my…..
It was time to save Andrea from evil receptionist. Whilst she was highly traumatized, I will still high from the results of my servicing. Only 1 pound since last year! This meant I could eat the rest of the weekend away. I had extra points!! Off to Dr.#2. I shall call him “Club Foot Dr.” There were only 2 things he wasn’t allowed to say. Bunion and Hammer Toe. That’s it. Everything else was fair game. He looked at the aforementioned club foot and determined my issues were coming from the fat back incident. Fabulous. I was relieved not to hear the 2 words. I couldn’t leave well enough alone and went on to ask about the bone sticking out of my toe…that was actually a joint. A hammer joint! Fuuuuuck! I can’t have fat back AND Hammer time!!! This kills all my chances for sex. Fresh off a clean servicing only to realize I’d never see penis again! Being fat is one thing. They make soft lighting for that. There’s no disguising Hammer Time! Can’t touch this!

I was starving and traumatized. We headed for the trough. Better known as Sweet Water Tavern. They serve bread that tastes like donuts…all day long. 11 years since I lived in the area lest I forget who serves bread that tastes like donuts. My fat memory cells are in great working order, thank you very much. I couldn’t decide between pork bbq and fajitas. Secretly I was trying to figure out how I could squeeze in this meal and still be hungry for dinner. I would will myself into hunger should this problem arise. Mind you, it rarely arises. So I ordered the fajitas. Which would have been great…had they not brought me a giant mushroom fajita! Had I wanted fungus fajitas I would have dug them from the ground and made them myself. I said meat…as in chicken and steak. I switched to the bbq, keeping the fajita fixings they mistakenly brought me ahead of the meal. SIF 1…stupid donut bread restaurant 0. It was time to work off some food aggression. I was in search of German Schnapps. This would be the equivalent of a marathon. After traveling 3 states, unable to locate said Schnapps, it was time for a nap. Resting is key when creating a dinner appetite.
We made an executive decision to never leave the house again…until it was time to go home that is. We had grand visions of shopping. We nixed that citing the points would lead to random weight loss thus rendering our new wardrobe dead to us. When it doubt, drink wine. We had enough on hand to drink away the day and any points that were unaccounted for. We were one bottle in when the hunger pangs struck. Being that “Mandrea” is gluten free, we ordered pizza. It fit within the theme of insanity. Food Coma, wine buzz and no energy for the dance party we’d been threatening all day, we went to bed. After all, the best place to burn calories is in bed. I was missing a key component to this plan…penis. Which I would clearly never be getting ever again. I tucked my Hammer Toe between the sheets and turned on 48 hours. Watching stories of people in the less desirable position of being murdered made me feel better…somehow. I couldn’t wait for morning. We were going to the Silver Diner for chipped beef…woot woot! Shit on a shingle would be the climax of my weekend. Again, our timing was impeccable. No waiting means no one gets stabbed with a fork. Ideal.

Time to get on the road and bring the boyfriend up to speed. He would soon know he was hooking up with MC Fatty. Less than ideal. We were making one more stop along the way…for Schnapps. The things I do for my vices. Once again, we were stopped in traffic. This time, someone was actually dead…or they better be. Traffic was backed up for hours. I decided to take a super-secret back way to avoid the commoners. That worked for about 5 minutes. I was starting to have panic attacks. What if I had to pee? What if the shit on the shingle decided to rage war and needed an escape route? Even worse…what if I got hungry?!!! I decided to look around for something to take my mind off the madness. Instead, I found the very thing that would give me a seizure. If you are going to have a great big sign for your business, please employ a company that works with spellcheck. Whilst I can still figure out what Laundromat means when it’s spelled incorrectly, it serves as a reminder that someone who can’t spell owns their own business whilst I travel the roads working for the man sporting a hammer toe. Thank you for that. We made one last stop for the Schnapps. No go. So, we decided to eat. By now “Mandrea” was borrowing points from Jenny Craig. Not to mention, the amount of gluten in her gut was enough to put her in a coma. We made an additional stop to visit a good friend who lost her father the day before. She gave me a gem…apparently I’m allowed to refer to my Hammer Toe as “Surfer Toe.” It’s genius. A disfigured toe disguised as a sporting injury. This is why we as SIF must stick together. Can’t touch us...stop...Fatty time!

Trippin...Dirty Style

After months of lying flat on my fat back it was time to get out. After all, moving is key to the “binge eating as a hobby” agenda. Sitting in front of the glass door like a dog got is not. I’d always envisioned pointless eating and napping to be more entertaining. There’s a missing element…you have to be getting one over whilst being pointless. Example (for the short bus fatties)…I’m supposed to be at the gym/work/saving the world…yet there I lie on the couch watching The Biggest Loser, eating the pizza I ordered without moving an inch. Like that. Having Fat Back doesn’t qualify. I didn’t dare call the meal train fatties and request random entertainment. They would just bring more food. I wanted it. My ass…did not. So I called upon a slightly shadier crowd. My “dirty girl” fatties. Don’t even act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Snap your thong and stay with me. It was February. You know what that means? Yes, Valentine’s Day. And? Yes, chocolate. And? Yes, sex. And? Yes, the reveal. I always dread the reveal. Why doesn’t Valentine’s Day come at a more appropriate time? Like, July, when I’m tan and less voluminous. No. Let’s have a mandatory sex holiday in the butt ass middle of winter when I’m as white as humanly possible, as fat as usual and as hairy as a Yeti. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

I called up my girl “Tori” (names changed to protect the not so innocent). As luck would have it, she needed to exchange a recent purchase at the dirty store. Seems edible panties contain carbs. Who knew? Off we went. Whilst I hadn’t envisioned my first post-op outing to include whips and anal lube, it beat the fat train. I worried my boss would see me and think, “She can’t come to work but she can shop at the dirty store?” Yes. That’s the simple answer. One doesn’t call upon the use of too many brain cells in such an environment. With the user friendly packaging these days, you barely have to string together a dirty thought before you see it being played out on some sort of random paraphernalia. It’s beyond frightening. And besides, if I happened to see her, I would surely black male her for silence. Job security. At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll say it again. God sends me the fatties. All types. Yes, even at the dirty store. (Random sign of the cross). Why? Surely the dirty store would be a “safe” place for me to hide in my delicate state? Apparently not. They find me. I often think I have “Fatdar.” My ass must send out some sort of fat sonar. Every once in a while the signal gets crossed. No good can come of this. Whilst I am a fan of all SIF, I have trouble relating to the overly confident fatty….for all the obvious reasons. I want to be one! It’s fucking fascinating!

“Tori” went to find her some carb friendly panties whilst I wandered about the cabin. I thought I might find some sort of fat friendly forever 2X apparel for the reveal. As luck would have it, they had a fatty section. Not a sole shopping over there. Shocker. Who’s coming to the dirty store for plus size puss apparel? Allow me to answer that, no one. No, you will find that crowd right smack in the middle of the size 2 lingerie. And so was I. I don’t appreciate random fat chatter whilst I am deep in thought (and squeezing all that is me into a thong requires deep thought). I had my eye on a bluish/green number that looked like it may accommodate the better part of my fat cells. And then she spoke. And no, I don’t make this shit up. I wish I was that funny. “My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I buy these outfits.” Silence (for all the obvious reasons). I refused to engage. Reasoning would not help this situation. This failed to stop her. “He says he doesn’t see the point when he’s going to take it off anyway.” *** Pause for random vomit as a result of said unsolicited visual*** I looked for “Tori.” She was being strapped into some sort of bondage bra. I felt the remaining discs in my back collapsing under pressure. It was too soon for such an outing. I was being “fatcousted” and no one was there to save me. “Wow, that’s awesome.” That’s all I had. No more. No less. I high-tailed it to the fitting room. I felt safe. Deep breath. Now on to bigger challenges…getting my fat ass into the bluish/green number without the assistance of the dirty store employee.

Whilst I could still breathe, I poked my head outside the fitting room and called for “Tori.” You’ll recall I said “Tori.” Not my new overly confident SIF stalker. And you can just imagine who answered the call. Yes. “Wow, I’ve never been that skinny. I was 250lbs BEFORE I had my first kid.” Thank you for the random over share. I retreated to the confines of the fitting room for air. Why? Isn’t there an unwritten rule pertaining to fat and silence? Apparently not. I listened to her go on and on whilst I chiseled myself out of what would be my new reveal outfit. Not bcs it made me look thin or covered all that is me. For the very reason that I had to get out of there! The visions of that Stallion riding her show pony side saddle whilst the dirty outfit went flying about was just too much for this fatty to bear! When I came out, “Tori” was waiting for me. I gave her “the eye.” Being a SIF, she knew exactly what that “eye” meant. Straight to the anal lube and cock rings. No, I’m not into that shit. I sure could be. I was traumatized. Stay with me. It was a diversion. Surely overly confident fatty wouldn’t follow us down such a scandalous path. Of course she would. There was no stopping her. The visions in my head were about to cause random seizing. We had to get out of there. In a last ditch effort to lose said overly confident fatty, I grabbed a self-masturbation kit…for men. I was trying to send a message. She gave me that look…“You poor thing. Your boyfriend won’t sleep with you.” Delusional. I shot back. “No, it’s a gift. For yours.” Touché overly confident fatty. Touché.