Category — Random Stuff

Humidity is an evil thing. I can always tell the precise amount of water vapor in the air based on how my watch fits in the morning. Today when I went to put on my watch, I felt like I was in an Amazonian jungle strapping an anaconda on my arm. Just look at how swollen my wrist is.

Today I shared the elevator with a woman who should have been taking the stairs. But she wasn’t, and I was trying not to judge because there I was on the elevator too. Then I glanced down and saw what looked like a small suitcase hanging from one of her arms, except it wasn’t a suitcase. It was her lunchbox, and the reason I know is because it was advertised embroidered on the side like this:

Ummm, I know exactly where her lunch is and I can tell you, the one place it ain’t is that bag. I’m not judging. I’m just sayin’…

I’ve been starving myself for the past two weeks, and the anorexic me had totally forgotten what a bitch the fat me is. That is until this morning when I found these on my desk. Apparently I placed the order back when I was eating everything within a 100 mile radius.  I hate myself, but not nearly as much as I do the little crack dealer who sold them to me.

Don’t forget to phrase your answer as a question!

Below is a picture of Frosty the Snowman’s homeless, illegitimate brother. He cropped up on the street corner the other day after a rare snowstorm. What’s striking about him is not so much his lack of personal hygiene as his complete and total lack of proportion.  That’s why I took his picture – because he reminds me of my own lack of proportion, e.g. a tiny head atop a big, fat body. In other words, Frosty got all the good genes while me and this guy got the fucking shaft.

Emaciated Lady and I don’t usually participate in Facebook status update idiocy because we like to keep our idiocy private, or at the very least anonymous. This is why, while other fools are out there posting profile pics of their supposed celebrity doppelgangers, we’re privately stroking each other’s egos over gchat.

Here’s Emaciated Lady’s most recent attempt at stroking mine: “You officially look like Gisele. I see you all over this picture.”

Unfortunately, this does little for my ego since I know Emaciated is FULL OF SHIT. Seriously, people, I look nothing like this. Emaciated Lady is a liar and I’m a troll.

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.

My coworker friend REFUSES to believe that I’m hiding fat under my clothes. We were having a heated discussion after I mentioned needing a girdle Spanx, and just as I was about to to strip down naked to prove my point, she compared me to my impossibly svelte Italian Greyhound. Now I could have been offended that she was comparing me to a dog, but I was actually rather flattered. At a barely there 8 lbs, with long stick-like legs and a waist any woman would die for, my dog is one of the few creatures I’m happy to be compared to. So thank you, coworker friend. I can now  forgive you for that egg nog latte.