Category — Mental Health Issues

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.

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.

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.

My close proximity to Hollywood means I’m friends with people who regularly mingle with celebrities. A close friend of mine went to the Grammies on Sunday and told me something that made me more depressed than on the day I was compared to Kim Kardashian. She said that Beyonce Knowles is 5′1″ and skinny.

Does anybody understand why I’m so upset? Because Beyonce looks like a large-boned person with big thighs. I’ve always prided myself on being skinnier than her. If Beyonce actually is skinny, that makes me dangerously obese.

Dear Everyone,

It’s me, Emaciated Lady. I’m so grateful for Skinny, who’s been covering for me in my absence, and I apologize to those who depend on us for a daily dose of cynicism. But I promise you, there’s nothing scarier than a fat anorexic and you’ll thank me someday for keeping my distance. Skinny Lady outed me today and now that you all know I started smoking again, I’m confident that I’ll get skinny in no time and help be your inspiration. In 38 days, Skinny is going to be by my side and I need to impress her with a wardrobe that doesn’t include spandex. Skinny, this is for you.

Oh also, most of my blogging inspiration comes from my ridiculously obese coworker and I feel guilty writing about her because she’s a kind person. And I don’t want to get fired for being a mean bitch.

Kindest Regards,
Emaciated (not so much) Lady

Since we opened up the dialogue about hate a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d mention that one of our readers recently wrote to tell us he’d like to see more hate crimes against fat people on our blog. Apparently, we’ve simmered down in that department, which goes to say that RA has upped its moral integrity.

Okay, not really. The truth is, we currently fall into the fat category and we don’t want this to be a blog about self pity. I promise that as we lose weight, we’ll do our best to make people like Piddle suffer an intestinal hemorrhage more often. As for the rest of you, we hope our rants about the dangerously obese population serves as inspiration to never get fat.

In the spirit of giving, I thought you’d all enjoy a recent email exchange between me, Skinny and our fucked up friend Crazy D.

Skinny Lady: I just wanted to let you both know what a fat and gluttonous pig I am – I have in front of me a sandwich AND a piece of pizza (left over from the tree trimming party on Friday). And I’m thinking about what I’m going to munch on when I go home to check on the dog in 5 minutes. WHAT IS MY PROBLEM?

Emaciated Lady: I want to let you both know that my obese coworker brought me a grocery bag filled with super-sized ginger cookies. Her mother baked them for me this weekend and HER MOTHER wrote me a note that said: “I know how much you like these Emaciated Lady. Enjoy!” I don’t know what’s more disturbing. That her mom knows me by name or that her mom is spearheading the “Get Emaciated Lady Fat” movement.

Crazy D: Ha! You both tell very sad stories. They are also reminders that we are entering the treacherous waters of the holiday season, bane of the eating disordered. My birthday was last month, so what did my wife do? Made me a cake *and* gave me a box of Godiva truffles. You can see that her definition of “love” is unique to her and indeed looks more like what most people would call “sadism.” And this was two days after Thanksgiving of course. Perhaps we need to commit to some kind of no-eating pledge for the rest of the month. Please advise.

Emaciated Lady: It’s too late for my no-eating pledge so I will encourage you both to join me in the “I don’t give a fuck if I’m fat in December” pledge.

Last night I dreamt that one of my coworkers snuck into my house and stole a sandwich I was frying up in a puddle of butter. She did it in stages, grabbing a little part each time I turned my back. Then, apparently to compensate me for my loss, she left me a bookshelf/entertainment center. You know what I did? I tracked that bitch down and let her have it. Because nobody, and I mean NOBODY, steals my food. I don’t give a fuck if it is imaginary.