Kind of crushing on 1970’s Chevy Chase right now.
Hot hot hot but definitely the worst person on earth. So much so that snl writers hid from him on an elevator and that makes me scared
But then, the truth was never really the point. Thin women don’t tell their fat friends ‘You’re not fat’ because they’re confused about the dictionary definition of the word, or their eyes are broken, or they were raised on planets where size 24 is the average for women. They don’t say it because it’s the truth. They say it because fat does not mean just fat in this culture. It can also mean any or all of the following:
Just plain icky
So when they say ‘You’re not fat,’ what they really mean is ‘You’re not a dozen nasty things I associate with the word fat.’ The size of your body is not what’s in question; a tape measure or a mirror could solve that dispute. What’s in question is your goodness, your lovability, your intelligence, your kindness, your attractiveness. And your friends, not surprisingly, are inclined to believe you get high marks in all those categories. Ergo, you couldn’t possibly be fat."
So I went back to Texas and there was a table full of people who were coupled off and they even made mention that the “new thing” was that everyone was getting engaged. And everyone had on mom coats (mom coats are bland khaki coats that go down to your knees, not trench coats but something else) and earrings and necklaces that matched and people raised their eyebrows at some stories I told. Anyway, maybe living out here makes sense because everyone is single and people have twisted fucked up senses of humor and mom-coats don’t exist.
And i was wearing a t-shirt with a witch hat on it over a men’s hawaiian shirt.
i think I’m in a really fucked up mood because of this insurance bullshit with my boobs. And the fact that it’s basically like I was told I was too fat to qualify for huge boob surgery…which i think is a chicken and egg situation because honestly if I had small tits, running wouldn’t be the fucking onslaught of issues that it is. Or maybe I’m kidding myself.
I have also gone 4 days without cigs. Today I made deviled eggs with greek yogurt instead of mayo which is something someone who has a closet full of mom-coats would do, but whatever, maybe I have a mom-coat in a hope chest or something.
My mom-coat is leopard print. Go fuck yaself.
I want a cigarette and a straight male best friend who comes over to my house and giggles in bed with me but makes me feel like doo-doo because he isn’t trying to finger bang me. but he totally gets how incredibly smart and different I am and is sincerely impressed by my taste in music, film and art. we have philosophical conversations and he never has a crush on anyone but definitely has hard negative opinions about all my crushes.
WANT SOME CHEESE WITH THAT WINE?
Even my sad-girl writing is adorable.
-That I am too messy to find love.
-That I have terrible bangs.
-That i will never truly apply my talents and abilities in a channel through which they can become financially useful to me.
-That I will continue to have crushes, and no one will have true feelings for me.
-That my friends secretly think I am very un-useful
-That I’ll get pregnant and will have a stunted artistic and creative life.
-That no one I want to date will actually date me back.
-That I will never own property.
-That I will die in the streets a dried up heroin prostitute who’s parents and friends and extended family long forgot about
-that people want to fuck me primarily for my huge boobs.
-that mood altering medications won’t work on me.
Source of these: Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder coupled with moderate depression and a very vivid and speedy imagination.
bold and noisy like a crime.
I need to get famous enough to star in a broadway revival of once upon a mattress.