It’s Spring Break 2010 and this fatass is ready to party! And by party obvi I mean get drunk and eat everything in the kitchen.
Let’s do a quick recap to get us all up to speed, yesterday I ate 2 ice cream sandwiches, 1 chocolate dipped banana, 1 bag of sweet potato chips, 6 vanilla meringue puffs, 3 separate dinners and let’s be real this BARELY scratches the surface—oh wait, yeah and I just remembered: I grabbed my third ice cream sandwich in a 24-hour period around 3am--that’s gotta be a record. It’s after a day like this that one starts to rethink the decisions they have made in life.
I thought a diet would be a good solution to control this rampant fatassery, but its only 4pm and I’ve already turned down a trip to In N Out and a donut run. My resistance is worn down for the day. The next proposal I receive for a fast food treat and I’m out the fuckin door. So starting a diet during spring break just isn’t feasible. And hey, I’m on vacation. I do what I want. HOWEVER, it is getting dangerously close to swimsuit season. And if I don’t want yet another summer of screaming civilians scrambling down the beach to get away from me as I peel off my triple-XL t-shirt and roll into the surf, it’s either time to staple my mouth shut or find a healthy hobby like developing an eating disorder.
Spring Break 2010, no regrets!
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy Holidays, Pt. 3: The Recovery
The decorations are put away. The candy has been eaten. I've gnawed the leftover ham until only the bone was left and I couldn't POSSIBLY cram one more fucking tupperware container into the fridge. In other words, the holiday season is officially over.
Now that we have all gained 30 pounds and are hiding our unsightly flaps, folds, and rolls under our largest sweaters, we are suddenly ecstatic about the cold weather. What used to be "Fuck, it's cold!" has gradually morphed into "lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" Because HEAVEN FORBID it gets warm enough outside to wear a t-shirt. Yep, it's back to the gym for all us fatties who have let ourselves go for the past couple months (and thank god for those little TVs they've got in front of the treadmills now, I gotta catch up on my Jersey Shore).
This is a special time of year I like to refer to as "The Recovery." Our walking pace has slowed, our running shoes have collected cobwebs, and our dignity is nowhere to be found. You know what I say? I say it's high time we rebound out of this season of perpetual binging and get back into the groove! But... well, wait a sec... is that so-called 'groove' really any different than the holiday feasting and non-stop fatassery? Isn't it anytime of year one can find me scarfing down a Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger, large fry and chocolate shake, only to hold me over for the drive to Taco Bell? I mean let's be real, that fucking Chalupa Meal has my name ALL OVER IT. All day. Every day. Eat great. Even late. Oh and don't forget the crunchwrap! ...What? Oh right, mild sauce, please.
I'm sorry, I don't know what I was talking about. The holiday season is not much different at all from the rest of the year. For the fatasses anyway. *Sigh* I suppose the only difference is that eating is celebrated during the holidays. It brings people together. From Thanksgiving, to Christmas cookies, to advent calendars, candy canes, pies; it's all about eating! Why must the rest of the year be any different? Hmm... ponder that one, bitches, 'cause THIS fat bitch is hittin' the kitchen. Fuck "THE RECOVERY." Psshh... what a crock of shit. Don't mind me, I'm just gonna go microwave a pot pie and put on my new Susan Boyle CD.
Happy Holidays!
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Now that we have all gained 30 pounds and are hiding our unsightly flaps, folds, and rolls under our largest sweaters, we are suddenly ecstatic about the cold weather. What used to be "Fuck, it's cold!" has gradually morphed into "lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" Because HEAVEN FORBID it gets warm enough outside to wear a t-shirt. Yep, it's back to the gym for all us fatties who have let ourselves go for the past couple months (and thank god for those little TVs they've got in front of the treadmills now, I gotta catch up on my Jersey Shore).
This is a special time of year I like to refer to as "The Recovery." Our walking pace has slowed, our running shoes have collected cobwebs, and our dignity is nowhere to be found. You know what I say? I say it's high time we rebound out of this season of perpetual binging and get back into the groove! But... well, wait a sec... is that so-called 'groove' really any different than the holiday feasting and non-stop fatassery? Isn't it anytime of year one can find me scarfing down a Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger, large fry and chocolate shake, only to hold me over for the drive to Taco Bell? I mean let's be real, that fucking Chalupa Meal has my name ALL OVER IT. All day. Every day. Eat great. Even late. Oh and don't forget the crunchwrap! ...What? Oh right, mild sauce, please.
I'm sorry, I don't know what I was talking about. The holiday season is not much different at all from the rest of the year. For the fatasses anyway. *Sigh* I suppose the only difference is that eating is celebrated during the holidays. It brings people together. From Thanksgiving, to Christmas cookies, to advent calendars, candy canes, pies; it's all about eating! Why must the rest of the year be any different? Hmm... ponder that one, bitches, 'cause THIS fat bitch is hittin' the kitchen. Fuck "THE RECOVERY." Psshh... what a crock of shit. Don't mind me, I'm just gonna go microwave a pot pie and put on my new Susan Boyle CD.
Happy Holidays!
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Happy Holidays, Pt. 2: Advent Calendars
Who ACTUALLY eats advent calendars the right way? I mean let's be real for a sec, one measly chocolate Jesus or whatever per day never got anyone anywhere. All the fatasses know that eating the entire calendar in one sitting is the only way to play the game.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Happy Holidays, Pt. 1: All About Eating
Ohh, the holidays. It really is the most wonderful time of the year. Peace and happiness to one and all. Especially for the fatasses! I mean, let’s be real, the holiday season is ALL. ABOUT. EATING.
First, Thanksgiving: an entire holiday devoted solely to binge eating. What could be more wholesome or natural? For weeks, gluttony wreaks mass hysteria in every supermarket across America. Fatties rampage down the aisles, fighting for turkey, gravy, stuffing, chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, ham (honey-glazed, please), CORN, bread rolls, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, apple pies, every kind of pie, BUTTER, I mean helloooo the list goes on forever. [Note: Be sure to whip out the heavy-duty plastic because those plates are going to be under some serious pressure.] Thanksgiving is a prolonged period of situational insanity, a feeding frenzy that starts to wear off just in time for Christmas.
Let’s take a closer look at Christmas, shall we? Gingerbread houses, candy canes, chocolate Santas, those Lifesaver storybook things, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Christmas cookies (including but not limited to snickerdoodles, chocolate chips, oatmeal raisins, peanut butters, Mexican wedding cakes, double-chocolate chips, Double Stuf oreos), cakes, candies, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, apple pies, every kind of pie, brownies, hot chocolate, peppermint mochas, peppermint bark, and whatever else your huge fucking ass desires.
‘Tis a glorious season, is it not? There’s a good reason people start wearing sweaters and baggy sweatshirts around the holidays and, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be the first to tell you… it’s not because we’re cold. It’s because we’re fat bitches.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
First, Thanksgiving: an entire holiday devoted solely to binge eating. What could be more wholesome or natural? For weeks, gluttony wreaks mass hysteria in every supermarket across America. Fatties rampage down the aisles, fighting for turkey, gravy, stuffing, chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, ham (honey-glazed, please), CORN, bread rolls, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, apple pies, every kind of pie, BUTTER, I mean helloooo the list goes on forever. [Note: Be sure to whip out the heavy-duty plastic because those plates are going to be under some serious pressure.] Thanksgiving is a prolonged period of situational insanity, a feeding frenzy that starts to wear off just in time for Christmas.
Let’s take a closer look at Christmas, shall we? Gingerbread houses, candy canes, chocolate Santas, those Lifesaver storybook things, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Christmas cookies (including but not limited to snickerdoodles, chocolate chips, oatmeal raisins, peanut butters, Mexican wedding cakes, double-chocolate chips, Double Stuf oreos), cakes, candies, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, apple pies, every kind of pie, brownies, hot chocolate, peppermint mochas, peppermint bark, and whatever else your huge fucking ass desires.
‘Tis a glorious season, is it not? There’s a good reason people start wearing sweaters and baggy sweatshirts around the holidays and, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be the first to tell you… it’s not because we’re cold. It’s because we’re fat bitches.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Free Bread
The self-control of fatasses across the globe has been tested for centuries time and time again by a small and often overlooked component of the restaurant industry: free bread.
Becoming notably apparent to me within the past couple of days, free bread is an ever-present fatty hazard lurking around every corner. Italian restaurants, pizza parlors, Pat & Oscar’s, The Olive Garden… EVERYWHERE. For instance, the other night, I went to Mamma D’s with some friends and there I was introseduced to their absolutely heavenly bread. Every couple of minutes or so, the pretty bitch with the basket would come wheeling around with a smile on her face and say “more bread?” And I’d look up at her with my kankles, teary eyes, clogged arteries and mouth full and simply nod “yes.”
Another night shortly after, I found myself at California Pizza Kitchen for a going away party. I had forgotten my wallet in my car so the server kept bringing me bread. Plate after plate. Slice after slice. Butter packet after butter packet. The only going away I was concerned about that night was that of my non-diabetic status.
The moral of this story is: take it when you can get it, folks. Fatties, there’s a recession going on out there. These days, when someone offers you free food, you snatch it and run. And if you’re not hungry (which… I mean let’s be real, when does that happen?) you grab it, stick it in your purse and save it for later.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Becoming notably apparent to me within the past couple of days, free bread is an ever-present fatty hazard lurking around every corner. Italian restaurants, pizza parlors, Pat & Oscar’s, The Olive Garden… EVERYWHERE. For instance, the other night, I went to Mamma D’s with some friends and there I was introseduced to their absolutely heavenly bread. Every couple of minutes or so, the pretty bitch with the basket would come wheeling around with a smile on her face and say “more bread?” And I’d look up at her with my kankles, teary eyes, clogged arteries and mouth full and simply nod “yes.”
Another night shortly after, I found myself at California Pizza Kitchen for a going away party. I had forgotten my wallet in my car so the server kept bringing me bread. Plate after plate. Slice after slice. Butter packet after butter packet. The only going away I was concerned about that night was that of my non-diabetic status.
The moral of this story is: take it when you can get it, folks. Fatties, there’s a recession going on out there. These days, when someone offers you free food, you snatch it and run. And if you’re not hungry (which… I mean let’s be real, when does that happen?) you grab it, stick it in your purse and save it for later.
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Trouble with Cupcakes
Just the other day was my sister’s birthday. So, typical of my mother on any given holiday, a selection of sweets was in order. In this particular instance: cupcakes. The trouble with cupcakes is, well, they are fucking delightful.
Conveniently cup-sized treats comprised of fluffy cakes topped with heavenly sweet frosting, they make for the ideal dessert. HOWEVER. Being that cupcakes are cup-sized as opposed to the larger size of a regular-sized cake, there is an unwritten law that you can eat more cupcakes to make up for the fact that they are indeed smaller.
Therefore, of course, I take advantage of this situation and grab one of every flavor: chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, coconut, strawberry and mocha. KEEP IN MIND that I’ve already stuffed myself with sushi at dinner, which means not only have I overeaten but I’ve over-soyed which is an altogether separate experience, dreadfully unpleasant in itself.
Cut to me, bloated and ever-expanding on my futon, emotionally raw and watching Sophie’s Choice. If there is one thing I learned from Meryl Streep’s character Sophie in that movie, it is that there comes a time in everybody’s life when one is forced to make sacrifices in order to move forward to better days. And god damn it my sacrifice is NOT going to be cupcakes!
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Conveniently cup-sized treats comprised of fluffy cakes topped with heavenly sweet frosting, they make for the ideal dessert. HOWEVER. Being that cupcakes are cup-sized as opposed to the larger size of a regular-sized cake, there is an unwritten law that you can eat more cupcakes to make up for the fact that they are indeed smaller.
Therefore, of course, I take advantage of this situation and grab one of every flavor: chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, coconut, strawberry and mocha. KEEP IN MIND that I’ve already stuffed myself with sushi at dinner, which means not only have I overeaten but I’ve over-soyed which is an altogether separate experience, dreadfully unpleasant in itself.
Cut to me, bloated and ever-expanding on my futon, emotionally raw and watching Sophie’s Choice. If there is one thing I learned from Meryl Streep’s character Sophie in that movie, it is that there comes a time in everybody’s life when one is forced to make sacrifices in order to move forward to better days. And god damn it my sacrifice is NOT going to be cupcakes!
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Cravings
The cravings of a fatass defy all logic and science. A sudden and inexplicable lust for food is a terrifying phenomenon that strikes hard and without warning, similar to natural disasters. Like a natural disaster, onlookers are shocked by the horrific display of the fatass “in the zone” and the damages done could potentially take years to recover from. Unlike a natural disaster, these cravings are not natural in any way, shape, or form and witnesses’ employers cannot write off therapist sessions administering treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder.
Luckily for world peace, my episode occurred around 3:30 AM Pacific Standard Time, so there wasn't anyone watching me (except maybe Jesus) and there were not any cars on 17th Street for me to worry about as I cruised, both hands off the wheel, dressing my Del Taco chicken soft taco with multiple packets of hot sauce. As I maneuvered my way through a left turn at a stoplight using my knees for steering whilst simultaneously placing my large cherry Coke back in its cupholder with one hand and shoveling the rest of the taco down my throat with the other hand, I thought to myself… I’m getting too good at this.
But hey, in a world with McDonald’s Free Mocha Mondays, Wendy’s door-hanger buy one get one free Frosty coupons, and a new Yogurtland right down the street from my house, what is too good these days anyway?
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
Luckily for world peace, my episode occurred around 3:30 AM Pacific Standard Time, so there wasn't anyone watching me (except maybe Jesus) and there were not any cars on 17th Street for me to worry about as I cruised, both hands off the wheel, dressing my Del Taco chicken soft taco with multiple packets of hot sauce. As I maneuvered my way through a left turn at a stoplight using my knees for steering whilst simultaneously placing my large cherry Coke back in its cupholder with one hand and shoveling the rest of the taco down my throat with the other hand, I thought to myself… I’m getting too good at this.
But hey, in a world with McDonald’s Free Mocha Mondays, Wendy’s door-hanger buy one get one free Frosty coupons, and a new Yogurtland right down the street from my house, what is too good these days anyway?
These are the Confessions of a Fat Bitch.
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