First of all, I'd like to announce that the test results have confirmed that Scott does *not* have an STD. So his shit is safe. For now. Except for the beard trimmer, or course, which is now mine.
Now, on to today's topic: me being a lard ass.
So, I'm fat. Don't try to say, "Oh, no you're not, you're beautiful!" If you do, I will shoot daggers of disdain from my eyeballs. I know that's what you were trained to say and it's sweet and shit, but let's be real: I'm F-A-T. I wasn't always this way, you know. I was very thin until my sophomore year of college. In fact, as a kid one of my nicknames was 'Stilts' because of my long, mega skinny legs.
Anyway, where did it all go wrong? When I moved back in with my parents. My sophomore year of college I got sick of paying for my own food and crap so I moved home (my college was around 20 miles away from my parents' house). I figured I'd move back in with the folks but keep my job and start saving up to move in with Scott, who I knew even then would be suckered into marrying my loopy ass. It wasn't a bad plan. Until it was. See, Scott was also in college. Well, he was registered. He never went because he stayed home to watch this cartoon called 'Recess' that I never liked, but he seemed to love. I should have re-evaluated my life choices at that point, but I was in love. Gross. But I digress. He'd get done with 'class' (AKA watching TV on his mom's couch while she was at work, completely unaware of his lack of collegiate dedication) and show up at my parents' house to see me at around dinner time. Here's where me being fat becomes his fault: he wouldn't eat my parents' food. Ever. My mother would be cooking a perfectly good meal and he wouldn't eat it. He felt that it wasn't their job to feed him. So we ate out. EVERY. NIGHT. For a YEAR. Apparently that was also about the same time that my metabolism decided to change, because by the end of that year we had each gained over 50 lbs. And we were broke. Because eating out is pricey. Why is everything that's good or fun expensive and/or unhealthy? It's fucked up. Someone should do something about that. Maybe I'll write a letter...STAY ON TOPIC AMY! Sorry, sorry.
"But Amy," you ask, "isn't it your fault that you're *still* fat?"
Uh, no. Here's why: because once you get fat it's fucking hard to stop being fat, especially when you are bat crap crazy. Food makes me feel better. Then worse. It's a cycle. I have a bad day, eat a large cookie dough concrete, feel better for like a half hour and then start to cry because I'm disgusting and ruining the kids' lives by setting a bad example. I also force myself to imagine my kids graduating from high school, getting married, etc. without me because I died of fatness. Then I cry and eat some more. Then I vow to try again tomorrow. Repeat this over and over again, toss in a few instances of me strongly considering making myself vomit to undo the damage before finally convincing myself that bulimia isn't the answer, and you start to see how it is. So how can you blame me? Obviously it's my brain that is fucked up, not me. And if you want to argue that my brain is the only thing that makes me 'me', then you're a godless heathen and I have no use for you. Enjoy Hell, you piece of shit!
Kidding, of course. It's obviously my fault and my responsibility. Maybe one day I'll get it together and be worthy of the nickname 'Stilts' again. Maybe not. In the meantime, Scott just made some cookies and they smell amazing. See? His fault. Ass monkey.