Making the most of our eating disorder

I am disgustingly fat and ugly.  My jeans don’t fit. My fingers are dirty from picking the chocolate off of peanut m&m’s, and I care so little about life that I would rather dirty my keyboard with sticky candy gunk than wash my hands. This is how I feel today.

I return from not eating lunch to find a tiny white box wrapped in a pink ribbon sitting innocently on my desk.

Turns out the fucking box wasn’t so innocent. A pregnant (a.k.a. fat and jealous) coworker decided this was a proper way to send a thank you note for attending her baby shower.

I swear I spot a four-pack somewhere between those ribs.

Rather than doing something productive with my weekend, I went through hundreds of pages of cookbooks and nearly three years’ worth of Vegetarian Times magazines to create a repertoire of Skinny Man’s favorite recipes (read: food I cook and he eats). I ended up with four pages of recipes, which I enshrined in plastic paper protectors. Yes, this is how much I hate myself.

Uggs are quite likely the least flattering fashion trend ever and yet, nearly a decade past their prime, I see the ugly beasts everywhere I turn. So this is a note to all the bitches who still think Uggs are cool: They make your legs look fat.  That’s right, skinny girls. Uggs make you look like you’ve got cankles. And if you’re legs are already thick, then you’re just making a bad situation worse. I say better to go fucking barefoot.

I haven’t worn my wedding ring this week. Not because I can’t stand my husband (which has prompted ringless fingers several times in the past), but because it doesn’t fit. Yes everyone. I’ve turned into the girl with fat fingers. At this point, I’d rather be divorced as it is a legitimate reason to not wear jewelry. I have since ordered diet pills online and anxiously await their arrival on March 1.

Please, people, please make sure to flush twice after you drop a load in a public bathroom. I’m not trying to be crude. It’s just that floaters can totally ruin someone’s day, particularly if that someone happens to be the jealous, starving type in need of a serious bowel movement or twelve.

There was no avoiding a night out with the friends this week. I had postponed three times already – one more cancellation would have rendered me a total bitch and I prefer to be just 97 percent bitch. So the three of us headed to a Thai restaurant, where  I ordered garlic tofu over cabbage and my two friends ordered noodle dishes. 

No more than sixty seconds after my food was placed in front of me it was gone.  This is me snorting my dinner through a straw:

Meanwhile, an hour and a half later, my two friends are still picking away at their noodles, both of them eventually opting for a doggy bag to take home their half unfinished plates.

You know, I was trying not to be a bitch. But this is the type of shit that puts me over the edge, and those whorebags are lucky I’m nice enough to keep their faces out of my drawing.