I get really embarassed whenever a dangerously obese person eats alone in public, has dangerously obese children, or praises food on social networking sites. I sign onto Facebook today to see a status update from a really fat (I mean REALLY fat) person I know who claims the proof of God’s existence lies in bacon. I believe he even wrote bacon in all caps. I wanted to cry for this person who doesn’t even have enough self respect to pretend he’s trying to lose weight.

My mom is always bringing me crap she steals from thrift stores gifts, and yesterday was no different. Except that in addition to the usual nick nacky  household items, she also gave me a shirt. Size: XL. I always thought my fat was all in my head, a product of my body dysmorphia. But now I’m forced to think it’s an objective reality. So all I have to say is, “FUCK YOU, MOM. SERIOUSLY, FUCK YOU.”

I once asked a mentally fucked up good friend to help me lose the 20 pounds I packed on in college before I got married. This was her advice:

First of all, no fucking excuses! Get serious and read this slowly- every point holds equal merit. You’re getting married. It happens only once and this is your one chance to look your best. Is a basket of french fries really fucking worth looking at your wedding photos for the next forty years thinking, “shit, I should have tried harder”?

Second of all, EAT LESS. Have you ever watched Survivor? Or seen an anorexic? [Read more →]

I have a bum ankle, which means I’m going on day seven of no physical activity. I’ve decided to allow my bum ankle to prevent me from exercising for an additional two days so I can enjoy this weekend guilt-free. I’ve already warned Skinny Lady that I plan on getting fat and she assured me she’s three-fourths of the way there. Well, Skinny Lady, I’m four-fourths of the way there and I count on you to still love me come Monday.

I had a virtual anxiety attack the other day when I noticed that McDonald’s is now printing the nutrition information for large fries on the back of the packaging. And just in case you can’t figure it out in the standard format (on the rear left of the package), they’ve added an easy-to-read/hard-to-ignore chart (on the rear right). This way there’s no escaping the fact that you’re eating an alarming 500 calories and 25 grams of fat in one sitting. 

Now I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know that McDonald’s french fries were on the high end of the fat/calorie spectrum. Of course I know that. But somedays I need to forget reality, drown out the anorexic voice in my head and enjoy life for a minute (which is precisely how long it takes me to inhale a large order of fries). How am I supposed to do that when the fry box is screaming FAT?

I suppose the corporate assholes over at McDonald’s might say this is merely an attempt to be more transparent, and maybe normal obese people appreciate this. Maybe they see those 500 calories and are encouraged since 500 calories for a fatass is a drop in the proverbial bucket. But the only calorie count that encourages me is ZERO, so please, McDonald’s, spare a starving anorexic and stop this nutritional transparency nonsense.

Today my hairdresser made a comment about her daughter’s torso. She said it was a long one, and I laughed because it reminded me of a friend who’s obsessed with torsos. The truth is that torso length has never figured into my equation for judging other people. Fatness of the torso, yes. But length of the torso, no.

So how does one judge whether a torso is too short, too long or just right? Is this something that requires the eye of a Michelangelo or  da Vinci? Also, is it better to have a long or a short torso, or is it strictly a matter of proportion? My guess is that the longer the torso, the better the chances for more proportionate fat distribution. And if that’s the case, maybe I should consider having my torso lengthened. Why not? I’m already considering rib removal to shrink my waist.

Holidays are usually the best excuse to indulge in sugar cookies and alcohol. Luckily for me, I could give two shits about St. Patrick’s day. So while everyone else will be busy getting fat and bloated on cheap, green beer, I’m going to gorge on 300 calories. It’s the one holiday I can feel superior.

A piece of red string I cut for a baby shower game. Two of my cousins wagered on how many times this string would wrap around my waist. One bet seven times and the other bet ten. Actual number of times the string wrapped around my waist: two. I wasn’t sure whether to feel fat or skinny afterward.