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Naming My Fupa: A Journal Entry from May 10th

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.



Filed under collegehumor fat food girl humor indian food justeatthefood sad the pit nyc vegetarian

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The thing about salad…

Here’s the scenario:

You’re out at dinner with a friend.

You’re excited to eat a real meal because let’s face it, you can only order delivery from Zen Palate so many times before the delivery man just laughs in your face when you open the door.

"HAHA! Oh miss! You again!”, he smiles.

"Yes, ‘me again,’" you growl, hastily pulling the bag of Chinese food back into your lair.

The exchange is quick and filled with guilt, like a crackhead getting his next fix.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got those good dumplings tonight?”, you whisper, scratching your neck furiously. “Give ‘em to me! Here’s $5! Now scram!”

This is troubling.

But back to the scenario:

You sit down to a lovely white tablecloth setting with your friend Tammy/Holly/Krystal and look at the menu. “Pork belly! Duck confit! Perfect!” you think. You like this place. You commend yourself for having chosen such an excellent restaurant and feel proud of yourself for 3.2 seconds before the waiter comes over and asks,

"Would you ladies like bottled water or tap?’”

Now this bothers you for a few reasons:

A.) You know he can just look at your stained shirt, crumpled jeans and H&M shoes and deduce the answer to that question himself.

B.) When you do finally mutter, “Tap works,” the waiter looks at you as if you’d just said: “Oh boy! You be fancy folk! I kin just go an’ suck on the faucet behin the barn, like I do at Pa’s house!”*

He quickly brings you your “poor people” water, and begins to take your order.

It is at this moment that Tammy/Holly/Krystal f**king does the unthinkable,

"And what would you like, Miss?"

“Oh! Me?”, she says, as if surprised he would even ask. “I’ll just have a side salad! I’m not that hungry.” and then turns to look at you.

"WHAT??!!! Who the f**k are you?", you’re screaming in your head, a frozen smile cast over your face.

Now when you order a “real person” meal*, you look like an obese monster. Like, “Hide your kids! I might eat them too!”

You know she’s just going to stare at you while you eat three full courses. And you’re a gross eater. No one wants to see that.

The waiter turns to you and asks you the same question, to which you mumble sheepishly, “Stkerrrtwo.”

"Sorry what was that ma’am?", he repeats.

"Stakrtoooo," you mutter, a little louder this time.

"Ma’am I can’t understand…"

"STEAK FOR TWO! I’M HAVING THE MOTHERF**KING STEAK FOR TWO!", you shout at the top of your lungs, a wild look in your eyes, your hair sticking out in every direction.

The waiter runs off and you turn back to your friend who is now looking at you like you’re some kind of zoo animal.

"What?" you say, "I’m hungry."


* Honestly who actually orders bottled water at dinner? I just imagine some old British lady in a fur pantsuit like, “Daaahling! I only drink Evian made from ice-cubes hand-melted by orphans in Latvia. But do make sure they’re real orphans! I want to taste their tears!”

*Like two whole chickens, extra fixin’s, drizzled with butter


Filed under salad CollegeHumor the pit nyc the peoples improv theater funny humor bitches