Fatbotage

Yeah I said it. And don't give me any shit for taking so long between blogs. As a newly single fatty I have quite a hectic schedule. Never taking off make up and pretending to only eat salad is exhausting. Who does this shit? I can't wait to move into Single SIF 2.0. I slide a little more onto the plate...stop hiding jerky snacks in the purse and reveal all that is me in soft white light. I find it to be most flattering. Yes, I carry spare bulbs in my purse and switch them out prior for the reveal. I didn't fall off the fat wagon yesterday. Duh. Get some game sisters. Be prepared. See your ass in cheap Dolla Store white light. Have your fat ass runnin to Wally World for some quality lighting. In any event. One of our fellow fatties tried to pull a fast one...on me...the original (well 2nd original behind Mother) SIF. I gots mad skills sisters. "Fatbotage" stands out like a Krispy Kreme at a Weight Watchers meeting. Or Fatty Hypnosis as it were....

You'll recall my trip to the magic man a few years back. He claimed he could hypnotize the fat right outa me. Me and 4 other people who were dumb enough to spend Valentine’s Day with him. What was the alternative? Spend it with my husband? I'll take the traveling freak show for $75 Alex. Clearly the most expensive fuckin nap I've even taken. Thinking back I really should have had better results. I was honest. I admitted to a pre-hypnotic binge. No one else did. I certainly don't believe for one nano second that anyone who pays to stop eating on the day they should be getting flowers and dick didn't run through a drive through for one last tryst. I know I did. Ate so many damn beans at Taco Bell I was certain my farts would be powerful enough to break the spell. Luckily that didn't come to pass. I remember 3 things about that night...hard metal chairs (which made me worry even more about the bean situation), fearing I was going to randomly admit to things no one ever needed to know...and HER.

I liked her. She was really nice. I suppose one shouldn't make friends at therapy. Like I need more fucked up friends. I have a plethora of them and they didn't cost me $75. But...fatties like chattin it up in these situations. I think I was secretly hoping she had some fucked up story that would trump mine and make me look like some sort of anorexic fat angel. I'm not sure what that looks like, fyi. I can't control my thoughts. You'll recall I was under the influence of the magic man. Who I believe to be a smoker. And he zapped people for that too. Interesting. He had wooden teeth. That's how I know. Ok so I remembered 4 things. I fear I am still under the influence. Anyway. She was really nice. And not outwardly fat. Like me. Fat trickery. You know I appreciate this quality in others. That's how I knew she had a closet full of bones. Chicken bones. Greasy ass half eaten chicken bones. It was an instant connection. On our break we chatted it up in the hallway. I was hoping to run out to my car for a Snickers. Nope. She must have given me the strength to just say no. Whatever. My car was parked 8 blocks away. The Snickers could wait until after I agreed to never eat again. Frugal fatties don't expend excess energy.

Revelation. We realized we were both emotional eaters. Happy, sad, angry...any emotion worked. The only time we didn't eat...when we were sleeping. My soul mate. No. I didn't get her number. She was the hot guy you meet at a bar and hope you never see again. Bcs you were dumb enough to marry someone not as hot or smart thus keeping you from eternal happiness. * This bitter moment has been brought to you by www.sistersinfat.com * Except she wasn't hot. Or fat. And I certainly didn't want to hook up with her. Grab a burger maybe. It's an inner connection thing. Anyway. No numbers. Just a one night stand of harmonious fat chat. That's it. Why would we need to call each other? I couldn't be her sober friend. God knows the magic mans evil spell was already wearing off. We would never see each other again. Never. Why would we? We'd gone all this time and never met. Why would we suddenly feel the need to be fatty BFF's? That's Big Friends Forever for you slower fatties. It just wasn't plausible.

That is why I saw her exactly everywhere I went for the next 6 months. In the grocery store. In the shopping mall. At the chiropractor. You name it. There she was. I had no aversion to seeing her. Other than the fact she knew all my fatty secrets. Things I wouldn't want the average person to know about me. New Me Monday. Fat Girl Lunch Hour. Binging. It was very Jerry Springerish...gone fatty. She was my Fat Baby Daddy. I gotta hand it to her though. She was always very complimentary. Lots of "You look great." As an addict you want to believe it's true. Now that I am semi-sober...I see right through that shit. The instantaneous sizing me up to see if I might weigh less than her. Peepin my grocery cart to see if I'm taking Lil Debbie home for the night. If I want to eat that Ho I damn sure will! And I don't care if your fat fucked up ass sees it or not! Debbie and I are togetha forever. Calm down. That's me talking to myself. It's what I do. I just don't think you should have to see your AA/OA buddies more than you see the bottom of an ice cream carton. It's not right. Had I been hip to her game back then...I would have been one skinny bitch for less than $75. Right under my front tire. Aint much room there for growth. Yeah I said it.

Let's bring this full circle shall we? Fatties like fullness. So I'm dating. That's hard enough to pull off on a good day. Calming the inner fatty so I don't bite my fingers or moan when I eat. It's hard work. I got a lot on my mind sisters. So the new beau wanted to take me for a nice dinner. Nice usually equals smaller portions so I hit up a drive through bout 4:30. Anyway. It was raining that night. Not ideal. Rainy nights are my emotional eating fried chicken nights. Yes, I have special nights reserved for the scalding of skin. I don't often veer off course. But he's hot and he doesn't want me to reproduce anything that walks or talks. Sometimes you just gotta compromise. He dropped me at the door and asked me to tell the hostess we had a 7:45 reservation. I can handle this. Or can I?

The hostess. Can you guess who the hostess was? I promise you it wasn't the Hostess I wanted it to be...the ones I call Twinkies with the creamy middle. No this hostess was more akin to a Ding Dong. It was her. And ya know she made it a point to hug me and tell me how great I looked. Except this time I did. 36 pounds lighter thank you. No thanks to the magic man. Or her ass for that matter. We did that whole fake conversation thing girls do when they secretly hate each other for no reason other than they had hoped you would look worse. I didn't think it could get any worse. And then it did. "So I know I should remember your name. What time is your reservation?" A. I never wanted or expected you to remember my name. B. I secretly fear I may have given you one of my fatty aliases. C. It's time to let this bitch know who's in charge. "Yeah...no that's ok....bcs my name has changed. I'm divorced and here with my boyfriend. My husband left when I lost all the weight. He just couldn't handle how hot I am." Or something along those lines. All I know is it was enough for my date (who I had now elevated to boyfriend status sans permission) to ask who she was. I suggested we sit down for this one.

How do you tell a new man on the scene that you once ate so much you had to pay a pedaling magic man to convince you to put the fork down and step away from the plate? You don't. You just tell him she's a friend from Curves and hope she doesn't out you. That's the cool thing about befriending people with as many chicken bones as you have...if they out you they out themselves. Check mate. I thought the nightmare was behind me. She was. Behind me and instructing our waiter to send me a piece of the fattiest cake on the menu and 2 Irish Cream coffees. Speechless. Fatbotage. Not only did she know I had already had one dessert...she wished for me to wash down another with a 2 fat coffees. I tried to explain the root of my anger to the new guy. He didn't get it. Of course not. Why would it be weird for my Curves buddy to send me cake? Um bcs we don't in fact have a Curves within 50 miles of us and everyone knows girls don't send girls cake! We send shots to dull the pain of not eating so you'll think I'm hot and fuck me. Deep breath.

I thanked her on the way out and told her I had to get a to-go box as I was just too full to partake in her conspiracy. Said with an evil smile. If I could have poured the coffee on her without the fear of no sex...I surely would have. Make no mistake. She knew what she was doing. 100%. Send a fruit tart...we're still friends. Send a piece of cake with custard oozing out of every layer. It's on. I'm working on my plan for retaliation. I'm weighing out the side effects of running her over with my car. Trying to come to terms with prison time. I don't look good in stripes. And you think I make this shit up?! Another page from the book of..."I can't make this shit up!" I AM the Larry David of the fat world. God puts me in these situations in hopes of me sharing them with you. It may take me some time between blogs...just know I am always hard at work! I am the fat defender!

Fat Nap

Don’t act like you don't know. Cat Nap for fatties. Brought on by random binge eating. I take 2 or 3 of these a day. Involuntarily. Eat, sleep repeat. A fellow SIf thought it would be a good idea to take me on a free, all inclusive vacation. What does this mean to you? Free Vacation. Dumb ass. Find another blog to stalk. A true SIF translates as follows...food...and lots of it. I was all but salivating. I also do that 2 or 3 times a day. Involuntarily. Comes with food aggressive behavior. In any event. Who turns down unlimited amounts of free food? Let me answer that...no one above a size 6. That's right size 8's...bite me. Me miss the chance to don my 25 year old a bikini in the middle of Feb? *Slit wrists here* I'll get a new one when I lose weight. Yeah. The good news...I'm not sure there is any. No good can come of pasty white fat cells hanging out of a faded bikini. No good. I looked like a Hot Pocket. And no..not the Lean Pocket. The full on Fat Pockets. Pizza flavor. It's my favorite. If I have to go down, it should at least taste good. Words to live by. Mother won't get that one. I'll explain later Mother. Fuck. There...a word you love.

We flew first class. It was a mistake. They must have seen my ass and figured an upgrade was easier than replacing a seat. Here's what I enjoy about first class....liquor. All I can drink. Here's what I don't enjoy. Stupid parents who buy their screaming kids $10,000 first class tickets. Why? Why? Little Johnny won't even remember the trip. Perhaps an investment in his college fund would have been a better choice. Yes. It would have. It took exactly 10 Bloody Mary's to keep my inside voice inside. I attributed #11 to immigration. The form that is. Ya know the one you fill out to declare what you are brining in the country and why you are there. Let's see...it's February. I live in NC. I'm traveling to a 3rd world country where the average temperature is 85. Hmmm. Definitely a drug smuggler. Just a dumb all inclusive vacationer too fat to travel. I passed out. When I awoke, said over generous friend warned me of impending trauma. I feared the child was loose. Worse. There was a line on the immigration form asking me to identify my marital status. Waitress....

Married or Single. Those were my choices. Are you freakin kidding me? I'm still in America. What happened to divorced, widowed...verging? I required more choices. And Blood Mary's. I summoned the flying waitress. I told her of my quandary. Her advice. Another Bloody. Loved her. I was on my seperationcation ....not even 2 hours into the flight and already having to confess I'm still legally married. Unfair. I didn't want to be married. I wanted to be divorced. I knew I wasn't that but I certainly wasn't married. It's a good thing I don't eat plane food. There would have been a run on the flying pantry! Speaking of which...all I wanted was one of those cute tapas boxes with the fancy olives and the cheese. I don't even like fancy olives and cheese. But fancy people eat it. And I was fancy. First class fancy. I was told I wasn't allowed to have said snack as they were for purchase only by the commoners behind the curtain. I never. Had I known the toilet was going to break and I would be forced into Commonerville to pee out said Blood Mary's...I would have taken the plunge and paid for the box. Stupid toilet.

Ask me what I remember about my vacation. Champagne & food. Food everywhere. Champagne everywhere. I would equate this to paradise. However, I saw one too many naked utters...yes utters...bcs the only people who go topless at these places should be nursing small calves. And one too many men in Speedos. I don't care if you're European. If you show me your dick I will attack. Perhaps a "Beware of Dick" sign would solve this issue. And one too many married couples who never vacation bcs of their stupid kids. They need resort training. Just like the mini-scuba certification training. There should be the "I've never been on vacation and need to know how to act" training. Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts should never co-mingle. Never. Over talkative and annoying. I don't care where you are from or why you are here. I am here to get away from people like you. Go have sex before your wife leaves you for someone who will fuck her and not ask stupid questions. Again, all the inner voice..but a voice nonetheless. Thank God for cheap all inclusive champagne.

My favorite moment of the trip...my friend trying to order a drink at the kiddy pool bar. Classic. Nothing like being scorned for needing alcohol to tolerate kids and their dumb parents. It became our Diet Coke & water haunt. Didn't get back there much. Breakfast was a fat girls paradise...the egg guy, the donuts, the waffles. Why did this have to coincide with me wearing a bikini? I needed to go to an all inclusive ski resort. Eat all day and wear a ski suit by night. Perfectly acceptable. It was loud. Very loud. Always someone calling to check on something they promised to do and didn't. Random migrant workers banging shovels at 11am. People are trying to sleep around here. Gheez. Never enough towels. It's like you are suppose to wrap yourself in a hand towel and hope it catches everything. Not likely. Wouldn't catch a tear. I use a hand towel as a washcloth. Clearly this resort needed SIF orientation. I got my fat naps in. Every day. 4pm. Right about the time the phone started ringing and the banging resumed.

Did I have fun? Of course! Everyone knows tanned fat looks way better than pasty white lard. A drunk SIF is way better than a sober SIF. I can tolerate so much more under the influence. That is unless you seat me next to the snoring foreign woman on the 4 hour flight home. Seriously. After standing in line for hours to LEAVE the country...my reward is Yaniqua the snoring illegal? Seriously. We saw her coming from a mile away. That person. The one you spot from afar and just know she's sitting next to you and it won't be pleasant. Didn't measure the carry on, over talker, snoring, constant pee-er, got the window seat...you know the one. Why was I Moni in the middle? However, I'll take the snorer over the TB patient sitting on the other side of my friend. How we got off the plane with CDC meeting us the gate...can't be sure. I just know I was fat, tired and tan.

What have I learned about all-inclusive vacations? Only cool fat people with no children should be allowed on the island. No utters. No Speedos. I'm so looking for an all inclusive trip to Alaska. I'm quite sure I could nap in peace there. No banging. No random chatter. Just fat naps and food. Paradise.

I swear a new blog is coming this week...

I can't force these things out of me. I need a certain ratio of carbs to sarcasm. I haven't been able to master the formula over the last couple of weeks. I'm verging...deal

Just back from all you can eat vacation...

New blog with details coming soon....as soon as I deliver my "fat baby"- stay tuned

Fat Wednesday...

Because that's how I rolls. I'll leave Fat Tuesday to the Cajuns. I don't like espicy. Gives me gas and makes me eat less. No good can come of this. I really have nothing to say about Mardi Gras. If you want to see my tits...ask. No beads required. No holiday needed. It's that simple. Welcome to singledom SIF. You're so desperate for someone to look at your tits, you flash at will. I'd prefer to not associate flashing the girls with any holiday starting with "Fat." Not to mention...Tuesday is dead to me. It's all about new me Monday. Duh. Covered this. As of today I'm down 36 pounds. The divorce diet is highly underrated. I feel like Dr. Oz should be talking more about it. Fuck water. Divorce is forever. Bra fat...gone. However, whatever one calls the fat under your ass cheeks...still there. Maybe it's waiting for the divorce to be finalized. I shall call it... stubborn. You can see how flashing my tits as opposed to my ass seemed like a good plan. No one likes ass muffins. Yes, I shall call them ass muffins.

Mother is still hoping I'll lose more weight... and El Conejo. One out a two aint bad. I will never leave El Conejo. He loves me and my muffins. Granted...he bites. I'm sorta into it. Who else is nibbling on all that is me? Allow me to answer that...no one. I wouldn't even know how to date at this point. I'd need to Swifter the Beav for starters. They don't currently make a "come fuck me" scent so I'm holding off on wet jetting. I'm sure you can understand my predicament. How does one market the following: overweight, single mother of 2 bulldogs with a virginal vagina seeks anyone with a non-battery operated penis to service her? I feel the virginal vagina bit is my only hope of a score. I'm ok with that. Time to dust.

So I'm sitting home. Alone. Watching the news. I know...no good can come of this. I could be eating. I should pay a visit to dirty hot neighbor. A lot of good can come of that. Manorexia. Seriously. This is news? First men try to keep us on our backs and in the kitchen...now they steal our only hope at being skinny?! I would say Brian Williams SHOULD be reporting this. I find myself being less than sympathetic. Why? I can't be sure. Bcs they are men. They are suppose to open doors and know better. Leave the non-eating to the bitches. The only ribs I wanna see on a man should be hanging out of his mouth with BBQ sauce. The bigger the better. Unless you have broad shoulders. We all know that equals small penis. Let's not go there. Non eating men are about as bad as the Skinnegars. If you don't know the term...catch up on your blog reading. I can't keep repeating myself. It's exhausting. Stay with me.

So if you can't make it to Nawlens for Fat Tuesday...no worries. You can be fat every day. It's all the rage. I have to go now. Some SIF just showed up at my door. I can only imagine they want to see my ass muffins. They look hungry. Peace.

Fat Ass

To Mother With Love...

The following is a text exchange between the original Sister in Fat (My Mother) and myself.

*Background info- today is her wedding anniversary...that would be her fake wedding anniversary twice over... forced at the hands of the moral police we shall call "me"* Proceed

Me: Happy Anniversary Mother

Mother: Thank you

Me: I hope Dad gets lucky

Mother: Real nice. What about me?

Me: I assume this would provide some enjoyment for you as well.

Mother: You need to get a boyfriend

Me: Nice

Mother: I hope he doesn't require batteries

Me: Stop reading my blog

So...with that, I wish all the SIF Happy Valentines! Eat lots of chocolate and screw after dark. Fat rolls look better after sunset. Love

Mr. Sandman, bring me a......

Have you ever had a dream that made you jump out of bed and say, "What the Fuck?" Or as my friend Andie would say, "Oh my Gawd!" And I'm not talking about a "Someone stole my candy bar" kinda dream. Don't mess with a fat girl and her shugga. Even in my sleep I will take you out. Typically, my dreams involve 1 of 2 things...Brad Pitt or Fried Chicken. Sometimes these two dreams morph into one super dream. Me and Brad sharin a bucket a fried chicken. Greasy. Yummy. Scandalous. I know that bitch Angelina aint eatin no fried chicken. She always looks hungry. So unattractive Angie. So unattractive. Anyway, so that would be an average trip down REMory lane for this SIF. One would think I would dream about sex since my current love interest involves a plastic rabbit that bites. No one likes a biter. There wasn't a warning on the box, fyi. Why dream about sex when you can eat fried chicken with Brad Pitt? Duh. An orgasm is an orgasm. So mine is a little greasier than most. Don't be judgie. What would make me jump out of bed screaming bloody murder....why an orgasm at the grocery store of course!

I can't make this shit up. I'd like you to think I have this super vivid imagination that allows for endless material. However, my life is too vivid in and of itself to go out creating more fucked up shit. I'm kind of a big deal like that. You'll recall "This can't be my life" allows for many layers of fuckedupedness. Yes Mother. I am saying fuck a lot. I try and get all my fucking out of the way on days that end in "Y." In any event, I am about to reveal a dream that will change your opinion of me forever. I can't be sure that's a bad thing. I will preface this revelation with the following public service reminder...we can't control our dreams. That's why no one's judging you for sticking the cucumber up your ass and actually liking it. You were helpless to defend yourself. The part where you used it in your tossed salad...now that's just sick. But you dreamt it. No control over your dreams. If shitty cucumbers turn you on, have at it. Just remind me not to accept your dinner invitation.

I'm stalling. Ok. Here goes. Well...let me first say I don't remember what I ate for dinner that night and I don't know where I was in my monthly cycle. I wish I had something like that to grab on to. Or a nice juicy wein, as it were. I'm getting sidetracked again. I can only say I went to bed as I always do. Naked and loaded down with just enough drugs to make sure I slept well and rose on time. It's quite a science. It's getting tougher since they started carding for Benadryl. I swear I'm not mixing up crack. Just making sure my ass goes to sleep. In light of some recent developments pertaining to the demise of my marriage, I should be able to cut back on at least 12 to 14 pills a night. Maybe. I'm currently going to bed humming "All my exes live in Texas." I only have 1 and he is in fact in Texas. I hate country music. However, if the shoe fits...be thankful it's at least 5 states away. The upside...he didn't kill me before he left. I was sure that was eminent. The smell of gun cleaner waffled through our home from the time I announced it was over until he left the state. For a while I thought I got a bad lot of Airwick room fresheners. Then I realized they don't make a "time to kill your wife" scent. Scary. Good thing he used my bread pan to hold the cleaner. "SIF unravels plot on her life after discovering missing bread pan being used as gun cleaning agent." Clearly the only way I would ever unravel a death plot against my life. It would have to involve food. How did I get off track again? Can't be sure.

So I dreamed I was having an orgasm in front of Wegman's. In my car. In the parking lot. Watching people walk in and out. For those who don't know what Wegman's is...I'm sorry to reveal it's a grocery store. A very nice grocery store. With good kind employees. Great service. Good food. And freaks in the parking lot as it were. Why? Why would I be rubbin one out in the parking lot of Wegman’s? Why? We don't even have Wegman’s in NC. Not that it really matters. As a fatty, I've been known to travel for good food. I could see if I was masturbating over the donuts. That's perfectly acceptable. Especially the ones with sprinkles. I may get 2 out of that. But the parking lot? Watching people walk in and out. Maybe it was the in and out part. I don't have specifics. Such as, was the rabbit involved? Was I flying solo? Was some creepy guy waiting for his wife in the next car watching me? I don't know. I just know it was good, I got busted and drove off in a hurry. I wish I could tell you I woke up, grabbed a shower and asked the good Lord for forgiveness. That would be a lie. I was still asleep. Speeding out of the parking lot. I'm sure I wasn’t paying attention to the arrows. Sex felons tend to ignore things like that. I feared my picture would appear in Wegman’s everywhere. "Wanted. Fat Sex offender. Known to spontaneously rub one out. Anywhere." I would bring scandal to fatties everywhere. Good thing I drive fast...

In fact, I drove so fast...the next part of my dream almost makes less sense than the first. As I sped out of the Wegmans parking lot running from the sex police/shopping cart retrieval boy, I almost missed one of this country’s greatest landmarks. Long John Silver’s. They are a rare sight these days. I've been known to drive miles out of my way to enjoy some crunchies. Even though you actually have to ask for them now. SO barbaric. Anyway, I was driving down this big hill and over my right shoulder I saw the LJS. Yes, I drive looking over my right shoulder. Good damn thing I did. Mighta missed the Silver. Anyway, I did what any civilized human would do upon seeing such a historic treasure....SLAMMED ON THE DAMN BRAKES! I vividly recall pumping the brakes like I was gettin paid to do so! Yeah...you'll recall this is a dream. A dream where I just got chased out of the grocery store parking lot for perv like behavior. So what do you suppose happened next? The unthinkable. No brakes. No mother freakin brakes! What the hell kind of dream is this?! I pumped and pumped. Nothing. Down the hill I went... crunchies fading in the distance. It's a wonder I didn't have a massive heart attack and die in my sleep. Nope. Instead I had to wake up AND remember every detail of this nightmare. And share it with you. I'm an artist. Anything for my public.

What does this say about me? My husband should have shot me whilst he had the chance! I am a meat beatin Long John Silver's addict. I don't think there's currently a support group for this crowd. By crowd I mean me. I doubt anyone but me would come forward. "Hello my name is SIF. I like to masturbate in the grocery store parking lot and I have an inappropriate relationship with a man named Silver and his crunchies." Nope. Not another one out there. I need one of those dream people to tell me what it all means. Yeah, no I don't. Any idiot could decipher this one. I need to get laid immediately if not sooner and I'd prefer the evening to include my favorite fine dining fast food establishment. Simple as that.

Do you suppose I could write a country song that incorporates "All my exes live in Texas," public masturbation and Long John Silver’s? I'm gonna get to work on that. Grammy award winning song writer, fat and freak nasty? Well fuck! Yes Mother, that last fuck was for you. Have fun in Wegmans. I'll be in the car.

Happy Super Bowl!

New Blog This Week!

Stay tuned....