I was supposed to go to the gym and handle those last 8lbs like it owed me money.
Instead, I bought cookies. And ice cream. And buffalo wings. Oh, and did I mention that I visit my local halal food cart so often dude has my plate fixed before I get there? Yeah. So naturally, now the scale reads:
And I understand that it's a far cry from this fat bitch (who apparently was also unable to tame her motherfucking hair at 211lbs):
But I DON'T LIKE IT. I can curb my eating but the exercise...LAWD THE EXERCISE...
You can sit there and say DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT but the fact of the matter is I'm one of those people that needs someone else yelling in my ear about exercise or I won't do it; that's how much I hate it. I need a trainer. I need that dude or chick by my side yelling, "Come on, Lard Ass, 10 more reps!" or it's just...UGH...I'm just... UGH UGH UGH! The thought of exercise makes me cringe and vomit and contort my face in all manner of stankitude.
So I need a trainer. One who understands I have bad knees and a bad back and so many knots in my shoulder and neck area it's ridiculous. One that will be ok with me hating his/her guts and yelling all kinds of profane statements during my session. And one that is not afraid to snatch me up whenever I try to stomp away mad like someone done stole my damn bike. (c) Darius Lovehall.
Most importantly, I need one of y'all to pay for it *blank stare* WHAT? Y'all know I ain't working right now... stop acting surprised.
Don't make me have to start posting pics of my jelly belly again. You know I ain't got no shame!
*smooches...squeezing into clothes I got no business squeezing into*
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Can we please discuss how fucking hysterical that Weird Al song parody is, STILL?? LMAO!!
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