I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.
I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.
I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.
My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)
You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.
I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.
My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.
Eh well, Master Chef is on.
JUST EAT THE FOOD