All Aboard...The Fat Train

Was it not enough to miss every remaining acceptable eating holiday in 2013? Apparently not. Let’s throw in New Year’s Eve (most acceptable drinking holiday ever) and New Year’s Day (the start of “New Me 2014”…who let’s face it looks just like “Old Me 2013” but that’s beside the point)! And just for shits and giggles, let’s add Valentine’s Day (guaranteed sex holiday) and call it the icing on the cake. Because we all know how much I love cake! Yes, my fellow fatties, my Fat Back took all that and more. Most notably my ability to run and consume endless calories thus supporting my “binge eating as a sport” capability. I must say, the SIF surrounded me with love (and food) during my darkest hours. Of course they did. Watching me get fat is a sport in and of itself. One best played with as many fat cells as possible. There were casseroles, cakes, cookies…a full on Fat Train with a whole lotta cabooses to ensure its success! I had no knowledge said trains even existed. Had I known random women would log onto Fatbook and sign up to feed me for weeks on end, I clearly would have thrown myself down the stairs years ago! If there’s one thing you should know about me (commit this to memory post haste)…I can spot fatbotage a mile away. I didn’t fall off the fat wagon yesterday sisters! Queen Fatty knows the deal….keep me fed, fat and flat on my fat back under the cover of helping a fellow fallen fatty all whilst sucking down protein shakes, joining Weight Watchers and lunging your way to “New You 2014.” Consider this train derailed sisters!

Pray you never eat so much you rupture a disc. While not the official diagnosis, I have yet to meet an MD knowledgeable in SIF. That takes like 30 more years of school. Let’s just call me a Fatxpert and be done with it. SIF, MD. I like it. Years of caloric catastrophes quietly collaborating brought down this SIF. Or perhaps it was just years of eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. Who knows? Was it worth it? Yes. I would die for that cheap, spongy lusciousness laced with colored crack handmade by the highly trained employees of Food Lion. Don’t judge me. We all have chicken bones in our closet. You might wanna close your door…a little tighter please. Ughum. In any event, something had to be done. A broken down fatty quickly turns to lard when left unattended. So I called in somebody who knew something about Fat Back. I had to wait a month for an appointment which was less than ideal. The pain was tolerable. The “no drinking” was not, however. I thought myself to be a casual drinker. I often lied on medical forms to arrive at this conclusion. “Do you have more than 3 drinks a week?” Which week? Clearly there were weeks that required more than 3 drinks…as in most of them. But who’s counting. Who are these people that insist on counting drinks and making me feel like 3 bottles of wine a night equals a problem?! Anyway, I’m bad at math…as evidenced by my size. I’ve simply checked “No” for the past 25 years. If Mother does the math, she’ll realize I’ve been drinking since I was 16. It’s a lie. 12 is the number. I was an old 12. Quit judging. Where was I? Oh yeah my drinking problem. I couldn’t drink bcs the pain meds were the only thing keeping me from eating small children. Pain meds are not my friend. I, unlike the rest of the population, do not enjoy a “pill high.” Apparently my addictive personality only applies to things that bring me pain…like binge eating and shopping at Forever 21. So, for one month, whilst I waited to see Dr. Fat, I watched everyone around me whoop it up while I meandered about like Pookie from New Jack City…except the only thing calling me were the SIF…to bring more food. Hussies.

Finally. Time to see Dr. Fat. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I dare say I had a seizure. No, not the pain meds. The chairs. They had weight limits. Have you ever heard of such a thing?! Posted right there above each chair was its very own pain threshold! As previously discussed, math is not my strong suit. Each individual chair would hold 350lbs. The double chairs 500lbs. I called upon my mad “Goesintas” skills to make sense of the numbers. I hadn’t weighed myself in a while. Who am I kidding? I get on that damn scale every day! I swear that thing is broken. It only moves in one direction….North. Worst case I could sit in a double, put my purse on the other chair and pretend someone was sitting there. I knew for sure I wasn’t pushing 500lbs…yet. Evil nurse summoned me. I had my posse with me. She wasn’t quite prepared for all that is me and my people. I’m kind of a big deal. Noted. I wasn’t prepared for her to run mad fat tricks and ask me to step on the scale in the presence of said others. Who weighs someone fully clothed? A skinny nurse with no inner fatty to speak of. That’s who. Do you have any idea how much my jeans weigh? Yeah, I thought not! I made the “others” turn their backs. No need for anyone else to fall down and hurt their back. I knew what the Dr. would say. Bla bla I need to cut you. Fine. While you’re at it, shave a little off the sides and find the scraps a new home in what should be my boobs had I come from a stronger gene pool. Thanks again Mother. And she wonders why I started drinking at 12? Not much to do when you are flat chested and fat. Buying clothing is out. Boyfriends out. Drinking…in. I digress. Dr. Fat said I had crabs. Yes, crabs. No, not the kind you get from being a big fat whore. The kind you get from being a big fat fatty. He likened my missing disc matter to crab meat. Yum. I love crab meat. He was making me hungry and I didn’t appreciate it one bit. Apparently said crab meat was running amuck in my back after escaping the disc it belonged to. Awesome. Troubled, runaway crabs on the loose in my back causing me great pain…and a club foot. Not attractive. Dr. Fat would remove the venereal crabs from my back and make me virginal again. Um, ok.

You know what surgery means right? No eating from midnight on the night before the slice and dice. Cruel and inhumane treatment is what it is. I stayed up until the very stroke of midnight eating and drinking everything in sight. I started having visions of not being able to empty my stomach in time for surgery. Everything from losing my bowels on the operating table to death, crossed my mind. Nothing a little valium wouldn’t cure. Luckily said fat removal was early in the morning. Watching people eat is hard enough on a good day much less on a day when I cannot partake in the madness. First stop…surgical prep. Why? Why did the nice young man insist on weighing me 2 seconds into our meet and greet. My sweet was right there with me. Imagine his dismay when he realized I’m not actually the 120lb petite young thing he thought me to be. I’m an overweight 41 year old with crabs who ruptured a disc eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. That wouldn’t even fit on my tombstone! Too big to die… that’s me. Little did I know this nurse had a surprise in store for me…kilograms. They weighed me in Kilos. Yes Lawd! I knew there was a reason I wasn’t a nurse. I can barely get through the “goesintas” much less the conversion from pounds to kilos. However, I noted this trick as one I could use to my fatvantage. As soon as I can get a grip on the math I’m going to start reciting my weight in kilos….except I’m not going to verbalize the kilos part. It’s pure genius. I grilled everyone who attempted to touch me. I wanted them to know I was a very informed patient. I watch Dateline. I know what goes down in these places. After being reassured they would know if I was actually awake whilst under sedation, I allowed them to give me some of the good stuff. Had I thought it through, I would have anticipated this would lead to me revealing my food aggressive nature and aforementioned drinking problem. Nurse: “I’m going to wrap you up like a burrito.” SIF: “I love burritos.” Really? Was that necessary? Apparently. Nurse: “What’s your pick of poison?” SIF: “Shiraz…or Pinot Noir. Russian River Valley preferably.” Can you say lush? Perhaps. I cannot be held responsible for the things said under pre-op sedation. If you want me to lie, make sure I’m awake. I’m quite sure I went on to reveal more, however my witnesses were asked to leave the room. I forgot to ask the Dr. for the crabmeat. What? That shits expensive. If I can harvest it from within and save a buck, I will. A Frugal Fatty is a Forever fatty. I got robbed. That’s all I have to say about that. They stole my meat never to be seen or heard from again. And my boobs were no bigger to account for the loss. There would be no post –op grazing as I had imagined. Beef broth and OJ does not a meal make. I just hit the pain button and pretended I was at the McDonald’s drive through. Much to my dismay, no one showed to supersize my broth.

I was sure the weeks that followed would bring massive weight loss and a whole new me. I would be drugged and in pain. Who could eat under those conditions? Um me. I prayed food would appear dead to me for the first time…ever. People would stop me in the streets to tell me how great I looked. I would never fess up to surgery and drugs. Hell no! I’d just been watching what I ate and exercising. Oh wait, I couldn’t move around very well so that would back fire. Ok…I was hit by a car whilst running and had to be placed in a coma for weeks whilst I healed. That would account for my time away from the general population, random weight loss and score me the ever popular sympathy vote. It might have worked….if “The Train” hadn’t showed up. Destination…fat.

Fat Back....Take 2

Never fear fatties...I haven't abandoned you. My "fat back" had a bit of an emergency...of the surgical nature. Yes, they cut out my "fat back." Bastards. Story to follow soon. I'm attempting to attach a teaser in the form a picture. If it doesn't show up...just wait longer.
SIF

Fat Back

And before you start salivating, I'm not referring to the hunk of lard used to flavor otherwise tasteless vegetables. Get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking FAT BACK. As in... I'm Fat and I'm back. As in... I'm Fat and currently have no back. And not as in ass. That would be too good to be true. Back... as in the thing that keeps you upright. That is unless you're me and spend most of your time ON your back. That's a whole nother topic. Not going there. In any event, not much has changed since I left you. I'm still pushing the limits of gravity with a very aggressive eating regimin. Gravity may have gotten the best of me at the worst possible time. My favorite fatty holiday....Thanksgiving. Two days before one of only a handful of acceptable eating holidays I went down like a fatty at the trough. On the floor that is. Couldn't get up. No Life Alert around my neck. No random calls "I've fallen and I can't get up." Who would feed me? Who would wipe my ass? Why my roommate Andrea that's who! Don't be judgy. Yes, I am over 40 and have a roommate. You'll recall the divorce. Shut it. Andrea comes in quite handy. She's a nurse. She knows things about things. Things I need to know. Like how many pills it takes to put down an old horse like me. Apparently that equates to 12 Vicodin a day....along with a few other appetizers for muscle relaxation and random OCD related side effects. Ughum


So there I was... 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2 weeks after running a marathon and 2 inches from the floor. Aside from the shooting pain in my back that felt like OJ had stopped by for a quick stab and run, I realized I might need a new vacuum. Look, OCD doesn't stop for back pain. You put your face in a rug that smells like dog ass! A quick click on JCPenny.com seemed like a plan... or not. I couldn't move. Andrea was standing over me popping Prednisone at my head. She delivers babies. She wasn't prepared for the controlling, non-pill popping crip lying before her. "Take the damn meds!" Down girl. The meds did not make me get up. The dog ass smell did. I just let her think it was the meds. One position...that's all I had. Fetal and feral all rolled into one. Less than attractive. One inch either way and I was screaming bloody murder. Muscle spasms, shooting pains and no appetite. Did you hear what I just said? No appetite! Fuck the pains, the spasms, the dog ass, the evil nurse....2 days out from the biggest eating event of the year and I have....no appetite! (insert random sound "dum dum dum). This condition is better known as "Fat Back." I was a vegetable...sans the fat back to spice me up. I was grounded and high as a kite all at the same time. I feared all my dirty secrets would come out... I only shave my legs on even days. My "girl" could have used a trip to the groomer. I take Benadryl recreationally. I hadn't flossed my teeth in 2 weeks (no telling what was in there). All these "things" were running through my head. Screw the pain...I had serious issues here! It crossed my mind that things could be worse. I could have the flu and be forced to puke in a dirty toilet. No I couldn't. I never have a dirty toilet. And I shave my legs every day. And my girl was completely groomed. I plead no contest on the flossing. I find it too sedentary of a task. Should have done it whilst I was running the marathon. I'm obsessive. I want to live life of the non-shaving dirty toilet crowd. I fear situations such as this and consider it my duty to not only wear clean underwear but to clean everything...all the time. In any event, I had Nurse Andrea to clean up any of my dirty indiscretions. Ughum. I spent my free time (every waking moment) Googling the plethora of drugs before me. Holy side effects fat girl! I was a cocktail of crack waiting to explode! Thank God I had my loving Nurse to scream at me every hour on the hour “Stop Googling and take the F’n drugs. I wash mine down with wine. You won’t die!” I just couldn’t argue with that. I secretly cut her out of the will as I feared she was trying to kill me and take the left over white chocolate candy balls I had stashed down stairs. I couldn’t get down there and she knew it. Then it dawned on me. Christmas was around the corner and she loved my cookies. Surely she would spare me until then. This was so a "Misery" moment. I was just waiting for her to chain me to the bed and break my ankles.


I kept telling myself "You will make it to Thanksgiving." Not... "You will get better...your back will be fine...you will run again...the pain will go away." Nope. I am a SIF to the core. I focused on the meal. It's Thanksfreakingiving people! It's Fatty Christmas! What evil fatty God thought this was funny? Perhaps the one who saw me about ready to transition due north into double fatdigits! (random sign of the cross). Don't get me wrong...I appreciate a good flu now again to shed a few pounds but this was a little much. Mother brought the flu last year. Thanks again Mother. I gained that weight back in 2 minutes. Next time let’s shoot for a stronger strain. 24 hours isn't quite enough time at my size. I laid in bed crying on Thanksgiving Day. I had my flex jeans and oversized shirt all picked out. Yet I laid naked in the bed high and alone. Until Nurse Andrea kicked into action. She made me a full on Thanksgiving dinner in bed and ate it with me...in bed! Best SIF EVER! It was a dream come true...or maybe a bit of a nightmare with Andrea as the hero who saved Thanksgiving. I laid in bed...on my side...slurping up every fatty creation she brought me. Mac n cheese, turkey, stuffing... you name it. I made sure to drop some between the sheets for snacking later. It's hard to eat sideways lying down. It seems like a dream but it's less than ideal. I had visions of a post consumption nap without having to move an inch. And it happened that way. I ate, I slept and I snacked in between the sheets. And in between all of that was the worst pain I have ever experienced. Tip...when it hurts to think about moving one should rethink over eating. Trips to the bathroom were less than pleasant. And so the hunger strike began. Yes, I just said that. And I hope I never say it again.


I lived in fear. We are all aware my overly aggressive running schedule is a cover for my overly aggressive eating regimen. Run 6 miles...eat 6000 calories. I've done the math. It works. Take away the running and my house of fat comes tumbling down like a big girl on ice skates. And then I realized something…. the pain pills that were keeping me from pulling every hair out of my body were also killing my appetite. Interesting. I would soon come to understand the down side to pain pills...the fog. If I was a guy I would feed them to my wife every day. I can't remember when I have been so agreeable. "Oh you want to stick the MRI machine up my ass and flush it out with an enema? No problem." By the way....getting an MRI when your L5 is unaccounted for is...well mostly impossible. They gave me enough drugs to put down a horse. Just not enough to put down a SIF. There's a difference. My sweet came with me for the MRI. It involved sedation. They slapped a "fall risk" bracelet on me and asked me my weight. Let's back up. I would never fall in a hospital. A. MERSA...hello. B. My weight...um...yeah Richard can you leave the room? I lied. Of course I did. I told that stupid nurse not to ask me my weight. She was skinny. She lied on me. There's no way in hell I'm telling my boyfriend what I really weigh. I've spent 2 years agreeing when he threw out random numbers like 120. I'm a multiple of that...or something. Then we had to bring in the judgy radiologist. He looked me over good. I gave him the 10 pound eye. For those less skilled in the art of fat....that's a look that says "Add 10 to the number I gave the skinny bitch and keep your mouth shut while your at it." Needless to say he wasn't hip to my lingo. Really?! Did you graduate medical school?! So as luck would have it I never did get enough of the good stuff to forget I was lying on my back for 30 minutes. They said I wouldn't remember anything. I would be sooo drugged. Drugs for 120lbs do not work on the 2X crowd thank you very much. I had 2 choices...fess or up suck it up. Can you guess what I did? Good SIF's. They said I have "jelly" from a ruptured disc sitting on my nerve. "Think of it like a donut that exploded" they said. I didn’t appreciate fat jokes at a time like this. A. I love donuts. B. They should explode in your mouth not in your back and 3. I prefer custard thank you.



I've made progress. I'm eating again. If you call that progress. Personally I'd rather go back to the drooling, non eating, skinny chick I had become. Minus the back pain. I can rock that look like no other. I can now move around enough to eat, sleep and think about eating. If I can't run soon, I'll end on some random TV show about a morbidly obese chick that eats her entire family out of frustration. It is winter. It’s a time to kill and hibernate. All the animals are doing it. I watch Discovery. It's all the rage. I am traveling 3 hours to the fancy Dr. next week. Do you know what I am looking forward to the most? A road trip pit stop at McDonald's or some random place that serves shit and fries. Think about it...no good can come of me seeing a man who cuts people for a living. He's going to tell me things I don't want to hear and take the money I was using to super-size my meal. This my friends is a crime against fatties. Fatscrimination.

Finally!

And I know it's been forever sisters...FOR EVER! I have no excuse. I just needed time after Tara's death. Today something good happened and I'm quite sure it's bcs of Tara...the Patent and Trademark Office finally approved my Trademark for use! This means Fatcessories for all! More to come on that. I will get back to the business of putting the fat to paper...soon. I think I'm ready. Tara...I need your help sister. More to come...

Labels...

Who reads labels anyway? SIF don't be lyin on yourselves. When Little Debbie openly confesses to 4,000 calories and 988 grams of fat in a single cream filled serving and you still take that bitch home...doesn't exactly count as full on comprehension of said material. SIF are known for their ESL skills..."Eating as a Second Language." Take that Rosetta Stone. It's a gene thang. A plus sized gene thang. Just ask Mother. For years she made me believe Heavenly Hash was a spiritual gift from above. A quick answer to a prayer when God was too busy helping skinny people with their fucked up lives. Husband being an ass? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash! Bad day at work? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash! New Me Monday and it's only Friday? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash. I started wondering why I was I eating nasty ass unleavened bread every Sunday knowing this holy delight was readily available. Damn Catholics. Always keeping me down. Read the label. There's only one reason they call it Heavenly Hash....Death. You are certain to meet your maker...in person...long before your time should you inhale this shit on the regular. I'm not sure how Mother made it this long. Strike that. Snackwells. That's how. Whilst I give Mother credit for reading the label...she may have overlooked the serving size. Snack Well. Not often. Not the entire bag. That's all I have to say about that. I know this for sure...Jesus loves wine and bread. He answers my prayers for these two items quite frequently...sans labels. And they all said, "Amen." (insert southern accent to make this word at least 14 syllables...for effect). *Random sign of the cross.* Riddle me this. Go to your closet and pull out a pair of jeans. No not the size 2's you've had since 1985 with the tags still on them. Please give them to the Skinnegars. I fear they are still douching their fat away. Read the label. Ok go find a pair you haven't cut the label out of. Do you really think that trick works? Seams sisters....seams. Fat people jeans have double stitching! Do I have to hip you to every "fatual" detail?! Seriously?! What do you think is holding in all that ass? Certainly not gravity! You are fooling exactly no one. Better get a seam ripper and take out a row or 2 of reinforcements if you hope to pull that one off. Did you find them yet? Damn bitches be takin up all my time with their tricks n shit! My point? I wanted to get your fat ass off the couch, make you walk UP the stairs and open a couple of drawers. I'll call it cross training for effect. It won't put a dent in the caloric calamity of your daily intake...but it pleases me greatly to drive home my next point with a little cardio. My point (random drum roll)...you had to work to find the label. No telling what ingredients make up all that is you. I fear it would be too frightening for the general public. It's all smashed in, sucked up, tucked away and presented at least 10 sizes less than it really is. Thank God for double seams! Much like the wine and the bread, he knew better than to put a label on a SIF. He knew we would lie anyway. It's not nice to lie...but I believe it to be ok to conceal. Leave a little to the imagination. Ok a lot. Before you start feeling bad about lying, concealing and seam ripping, let's say a prayer for a group that hasn't been afforded the same luxuries as the SIF. The Brothers in Fat. The BIF's. No these are not large black men. They are men with an inner fatty. This knows no color...or label as it were. So by now you know I'm divorced and dating. Maybe you don't know that. Now you do. While I had random thoughts of switching teams due to the sheer lack of sex I received in the 8 years I was married...I stayed the course. Dick it is. As usual the thought of dick makes me lose my train of thought. Sorry Mother. I guess you know I'm no longer a virgin. I'm still fat and eating Heavenly Hash. That has to count for something. You always said I was your favorite daughter. I have one brother. Not a compliment. Where was I? Dating. Oh that. So my very sexy boyfriend (I'm quite sure he's reading this so the compliments will be free flowing from here on out) came walking into the kitchen one night dressed in his new jeans. I couldn't take my eyes off his ass. Yes, bcs it's nice and yes bcs I think of sex immediately when I see him. I'm sure there's a pill for this but my liver is currently at max capacity with wine and diet pills. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There it was. A label. Length, waist size...all the particulars I would never want anyone to know about me. Yet, it was prominently displayed for the entire world to see. My hand subconsciously reached for a Sharpie. It's a SIF thing. A 911 between fatties. Before I turned 8's into 0's I grabbed his ass...attention. I think he said, "I never thought about it like that." Why? Why do men take up permanent residence in the dark? No good can come of this. They always have that blank stare when a woman enlightens them about something so painfully obvious. You are running around town with your "fadigits" (fat digits) hanging out and you never thought this could be an issue? Ever wonder why you only get Healthy Choice coupons from the grocery store checkout lady? She's lookin at your ass. Ever wonder why no one offers you dessert when you go out to eat? They've seen your ass. Levis are not your friend fellas! Time to invest in a good seam ripper and a SIF! We know the rules. Ugh...this blog is exhausting. It's like exorcising demon after demon only to find out they had babies. Twins. Triplets. What will I discover next? I know what the garbage man will discover on Friday morning. The remnants of Wednesday night’s binge. Fried chicken and ice cream. No I'm not pregnant. I have a worm. A very large worm that has taken up residence somewhere inside all that is me. He (yes I know him to be male) makes me buy fried chicken when I go to the store for Snackwells. I even bought hot fudge. Blew that up in the microwave. Hated to have to lick the jar. Didn't want it to drip all over the floor n all. For the record I did not read the labels on the fried chicken, the ice cream, the hot fudge or the macaroni and cheese (almost forgot about that). What's the point? They all = death. So I'll go out with greasy lips and hot fudge stains. Way better than wearing a label on my ass. I'm just sayin.

It's been a year...

Since I've typed a word on this blog. Paralyzed by grief I suppose. I've thought of funny things to share and hoped they would bring me back to blogging. Just knowing you wouldn't be around to call and tell me how funny I am stopped me every time. You don't realize how much you appreciate something until it's not there. I have shit to say. And it needs to be said. And I WILL say it again. I can feel your disappointment in me. I let the blog sit for a year. This Sunday we will celebrate your life on the day of your death. I am prepared to make you a promise. To let go of what's keeping me from moving past my grief and begin to do what you wanted me to do so badly...be famous. Oh and rich. So I could support you of course. Guess I'll have to take care of Mama Quita and Dotty now that you have gone to Heaven. I'll make sure Mama wants for nothing and Dotty has that reading machine you wanted her to have. The best money can buy. I'll even take her to see the drag queens and make sure she has that paper bag stash of vodka that made you laugh so much. It was that simple your eyes. "Write and you will be rich Homey. You are so fuckin funny." Everything was cut and dry. Just do it. Don't take no for an answer and don't make excuses. If you're out there reading this...remember....each day is a gift. Appreciate everything often and always. Find pleasure in the little things. Surround yourself with great people and live each day as if it were your last. I always thought that was cliche...until 04/28/2012. Now it's the rock on which I build every minute of every day. I have to remind myself to enjoy everything and worry about nothing. What's meant to be is meant to be. God says who. God says when. No amount of anything changes that. Make great memories and smile often. Control what you can control and let go of everything else. Wasted time is a wasted life. I will be back soon with something funny to say. In fact I already know what it is. You'll just have to stay tuned. For now...we celebrate my #1 Fan...my Homey....my SIF...Mrs. Tara Burlage. My love always Homes. I miss our runs, our wine and our dance parties. Esposa still can't dance. Hell, you couldn't either. Thank God I have soul. See...that was funny. True but funny. XOXO SIF

Still trying

Thank you to all my followers for continually checking back. I will write again. I just can't seem to do it yet.

I'm trying...

Still can't seem to bring myself to write. I'm trying...

I will write again soon...

Sorry to all my followers for not posting in a while. It's been very hard to think about writing following Tara's death. I know she would want me to. In fact I can hear her saying, "Homey when are you going to do another blog?" She loved reading them and would always call me to tell me how funny they were. Gonna miss that. I will write again. Soon. SIF

I will...

When Tara passed away, the words "I will" immediately came to mind. As writers, we don't always know why certain things come to us. We just know it's what needs to be said and try to fill in the blanks. Now that a few weeks have gone by, I understand why. Because Tara never said "I can't." She just did. Her can do attitude extended to everyone she loved. If you couldn't fix it, she would. Even if it meant telling you to do something you didn't want to do. There are an endless amount of things I will miss about you "Homey", but most of all...."I will" miss you. I will...never forget your infectious laugh and beautiful smile. You're absouletly right...Those White Strips really do work. I will...never be able to emulate your jest for life. I'm just too lazy. You found happiness in the craziest things. Garlic? How is this cause for celebration? I can't be sure. I just know it went in everything...minimum 10 cloves. I will...never cook like you. You tried...I just love McDonalds Homey. That's where I went before every dinner you invited me to. Sorry. I was hungry. Who eats dinner at 11pm? You. I will...always eat at 6 o'clock in the "afternoon"...just to piss you off. By the way...that's actually evening. I will...continue to bring store bought 7 layer dip to every party. I'll await the strike of lightening. I will...never be able to run one step without wishing you were next to me. Even when you smelled like Shiraz at 7am. I will...always hear your voice yelling at me at 6:45am "Damn Homey! Are you ever late?! Why do we have to run so early?" I will...never be able to explain to you why everyone else works 8 hours a day. They just do Homey. They just do. I will...never let anyone else call me General Byrd. I'm changing my name just for you. Oh and the divorce n all. I will...always have drunken dance parties in the kitchen just for you. EZ-E, countertop dancing and dog humping. It's soo cute. NOT. I will...never let Yenny stop cleaning or cooking. She didn't take the yob at Lowes. No mas pancakas Y tocina. I will...never forget that early morning run when you said "You are my worst fuckin nightmare." I consider that a compliment. I will...never stop laughing at how you got people to do just what you wanted. Everytime. I never liked wine. Thanks. I will...always remember you trying to control my love life. The answer to your last email was "yes." -pinche I will...never stop laughing at your version of "being on the wagon." "That just means I'm switching to beer Homey." Love that wagon of yours. Gonna have to take a ride on it sometime. I will...never understand how you were the only realtor without a smart phone. You were a realtor right? :0) I will...never forget that day on the pier. It was a Saturday. A client called. You were appalled. "Who calls on a Saturday?" Realtor of the Year...that was you. As long as you called Mon-Fri, after the run, before lunch and not after happy hour. I will...never forget how you laughed at anything I wrote or said. I'm not that funny. You just needed new friends :0) I will...never dance like you. For the record that's not a compliment. I have soul, I know more than 1 move & I'm not allowed on the seam. I will...always remember showing you my boobs after I had them done. I think that was preceeded by, " Hi, I'm Kelly, nice to meet you." Peas and carrots. I will...never forget how you always told me how great I looked. At 200 pounds as well as 150. I'm sure this makes you a friend. Or a candidate for Lasick. Can't be sure. I will...add to the last statement by saying, telling me "You were gettin heavy" after the fact was not amusing. Follow that with "Doug said it's like takin (6) 5 pound bags of potatoes off your ass"...and I hear friend of the year calling. Never eating again. I will...make that stupid chicken dish you made Susan and I. Only bcs you said I couldn't. I can. I just prefer to have sex over grilling pine nuts for 12 hours. I'm sure you understand. I will...always follow the things I don't like to do with "I'd rather have the clap." You coined it. It lives on. I will...always refer to the food I love most in the following manner "It's like an orgasm in my mouth." I'm sorry to report this will most likely be some sort of fast food combo. But your spirit will be there all the same. Oh and this is why we never took you out to dinner. We understand it to be a compliment. The general public isn't quite there yet. That and we were afraid you'd bust out a coupon. I will...always wonder how you managed to like everyone. There are just some people I don't like. I don't care what you say. I will...thank you one day for keeping my secret. That's singular. Bcs it's the only one you ever kept. And it wasn't even a big one. Remind me to smack you around a bit when I see you again. I will...tell everyone how you ate an entire pizza. I watched you. Heffa. And still wore single digit jeans. I will...start returning my 10 year old jeans to Victoria Secret. I wouldn't want them to worry something might have happened to the one person who actually read the return policy. I will...admit to making sure your Mom reads the blog and tells me it's funny. You were my only fan. Now what? Mom has agreed to take over. I will...always be fascinated that you donated 6 organs. Only bcs we all believed your liver to be undesirable. I fear there's hope for mine. I will...or should I say I would...appreciate it if you stop haunting my dreams. If you wanted to get in bed with me you had the last 9 years to do so. I will...be watching "I'll Have Another" win the triple crown. Show off. Ok...I made that funny for you Homage. But I have some serious stuff to say. Don't worry...just a little... I will...no longer be afraid of death. I know you are waiting to run with me. One day sister...One day... I will...always appreciate every breath I take. I breathe for you. I will...never be unhappy. Life is too short. I will...never let anyone say a bad word about you. EVER. I will...write my book and dedicate it to you...promise. I will...make sure your animals are always loved. Yes, even the cat. I will...never forget being with you in the hospital during the last hours of your life. You looked so beautiful. Even in pain. I will...forgive myself for not being able to save you. You came to me. You set me free. Thank you. I will...never judge anyone again. You taught me to accept people for their good qualities. I will...take care of your family. They are my family now. I will...never forget you my SIF, my Homey, my Homage...my forever friend. I love you Tara Burlage! General Byrd aka Kelita aka whatever other crazy names you came up with for me :0)