I realize I missed one instalment of my WTF Wednesday series. Do not fret. I’m still hogging. Pigging out. What else do you expect? I live in the Pig Capital of the country, hello.
My doctor says I’ve to weigh in once every week. Which I never do. I’m terrified of two things – shaadi.com and the weighing scale. And yes, my crazy parents had once created a profile for me. Oh that dumb matrimonial website. Yes, you can get grooms and brides online while surfing the net, sitting on your couch in your Hello Kitty/ Batman PJs and stuffing your face with Pringles while managing to look like a perfect version of death. I hacked into dad’s computer and took that embarassing load of crap down.
*Insert giant dramatic shudder*
So before I stray any further from what I was saying – I actually weighed in today. And it was bad news, y’all. Bad news calls for cheese and all sorts of comfort food that hugs your derriere. And thighs. And your midsection. And I decided to grab the most fattening thing on the menu. Fine. I’m fat. Fat people are happy. And I’m turning 24. In exactly a week. I have to get drunk on food. I have to. It’s the sweetest taste of sin.
The voices in my head – and belly – tell me this is wrong. That I should watch my calories. But – look, pretty food!
There are three things you can’t ever say no to – pretty food, pretty stationery… Pretty shoes.
Also, have you noticed that EVERYTHING SEEMS APPEALING WHEN YOU’RE ON DIET? I’m sure even Haggis would seem appealing. Or maybe I’m preggers with a food baby. That’s it. That explains why I’m hungry all the time.
Which reminds me – that yellow dip tasted horrible, by the way. It’s just that the light makes it look okay. And I am never eating nachos again.
Ooh. I’ve got a Sheldon Cooper-y thing with “spots.” Like, my friend and I would always sit at this corner booth, but then we got hit by the Attack of Helicopters – waiters who hover, try to flirt, and just. won’t. budge. And every time you try to take a bite, they come talk to you and your food gets cold waiting on the fork somewhere halfway between your plate and mouth. And you’re too polite to ask them to go away. And they won’t take the hint.
Today we actually changed our spot. And guess what? No Helicopters! Yes! 💪
(Sorry about the insane diary-ish post. I’m totally stressed. It sucks, having to say goodbye to early twenties. *Sob*)