Confession #2: I think fat jokes are funny.

Maybe it’s a remnant of evilness from my skinny bitch era, (or my Pre Fattie Days as I also like to call it). Maybe it’s a slight defense mechanism. You know, laugh at yourself before they can laugh at you. Or maybe I just believe that a lot can be forgiven for the sake of comedy….. I’m beginning to believe that it might be a combination of all three.
 
I am very sad and ashamed to confess that sometimes I still shake my head in disbelief at other fat asses. I know. I’m a terrible person. I’ve gained a hundred lbs in five years but I still find myself judging Ms. Porky Cankles as she stands outside of Macy’s in her much too tight/exposing/ill-fitting monstrosity of a shirt……………even as I sit a few yards away in the food court, double fisting a large order of Pretzel bites and considering my chances of renting a motorized scooter to scoot me to American Cookies, (3 for $5! You bet your sweet M&M-filled ass I will!)
 
As a former skinny bitch, (seriously people, I looked like an effin Bobblehead!), I sometimes have the very wrong and inaccurate view that MY fat is different from THEIR fat. I wasn't always this way so that OBVIOUSLY makes me soooo very different from Sir Chunks-A-Lot standing over there with the Krispy Kreme box(es), (I wonder if the HOT sign is on?). For some very illogical reason, I actually feel (*sigh*) BETTER in some way because I lived the life of a non-fat for the majority of my life. Saddest. Shit. Ever. I know it’s a jacked up thought process. But the chunkiness has not smothered all of the skinny bitch inside me…..Yet. But trust me; it’s trying.
 
I think that laughing at fat jokes may be a defense mechanism for me too. Not to get all Dr. Phil on you, (who, by the by, is getting pretty chunked up as well!), but my insecurity about my weight tends to manifest itself in a lot of seemingly inappropriate laughter and gags regarding fatties and their fat-related issues i.e. getting in and out of cars, eating food in public, blah blah blah, etc. I tend to make the obvious jokes about myself, self-deprecating in a way that sometimes makes others uncomfortable or, as I recently found, makes my loved ones angry. I find that I make jokes and digs at myself that I believe, (incorrectly), that others are just dying to say. Very old school arm chair psychology 101: I do and say it first as not to give others the opportunity to hurt me. Yes, sweet cheeks. I know. Again it’s so very sad sad SAD…..
 
If I am being completely honest, I have to admit that a lot of jokes get a pass with me simply because they are funny as hell. I laugh at everything. Anything really. Some really inappropriate and unfortunate shit that I should be, (and am), really ashamed to admit. I like to attribute it to the fact that I don’t take too much very seriously. The world is going to hell in a handbasket and I feel like if I can’t or won’t laugh at the reality that my fattie has difficulty getting in and out of my Ford Focus, (really fat girl?!?!? You bought a Focus???), then there’s not much I will be able to laugh at. It’s a fucked up world, loves. Gotta get my laughs where I can.
 
Disclaimer: I do not approve of disrespect or hatred towards fellow fatties. I do not condone making others feel small, belittled and inferior just because their fat disposition may rival that of prize-winning, web-reading Babe…
 
……..However, a well timed, highly comedic dig/gag/joke will elicit a giggle, (or more), from me. Sometimes bitchiness/insecurity/comedy will win………And yes I DO know that long sessions on some therapist’s couch is in my very near future.

Confession #1: I pissed away 32 years.

I am a mere forty some odd days away from the start of another birth year. Birthday festivities are being cemented, gifts are being demanded and, with the tunnel-vision focus of an anti-gay hate group, I am wrapping up my detailed game plan to eat my way into 33 at the finest establishments my area has to offer.

As I sit here, alternately gleeful at the thought of a food-induced coma and saddened that I can no longer fit into my gluttony-supporting “eating pants”, I can’t help but think that I am no closer to being smarter/richer/thinner/nicer/tolerant-er than I was a few three hundred and twenty something days ago. If honesty were to prevail, I would have to admit that I am actually fatter/bitchier/poorer/bittER than I was during my birthday celebration last year. And that sucks more than the very real fact that my fat jeans are now my skinny jeans.

Last year I had great intentions for my 32^nd year. I wanted to act better, sound better, look better, BE better than I had ever thought possible. But you know what they say, (who the FUCK are ‘they’ btw????), the road of good intentions is paved with hellish failure…. or hard intentions leads to a fat ass. Whatever. You get my point.

As I sit here contemplating the truly unfortunate possibility of wearing sweat pants (the HORROR!) to a passion party this weened (as though some overpriced sex toy will cure what ails me), I have to admit that I am ashamed. Ashamed that, as I look back, it cannot be considered an eventful year. I did not live joyously, loudly, unabashedly as I had planned. I did not find joy in the small things, (besides the overwhelming joy I always find in Debbie cakes, of course). I did not take a firm grasp of my future by fully living the present. I just existed. Drifted along in a seemingly endless yet shallow sea of regrets, sadness and bittersweet memories until an internal bell rang, (or my cookie timer. Not sure…) and I realized that another year was OVER……and I was staring at the gnarled, creaky door that deposits me firmly in my thirties.

Another year, another chance, to DO something instead of just talking about it over and over………and over. It seems as though, with every year that passes, that window, the hopefulness, gets smaller and smaller. And I am so scared that my fattie fat ass won’t be able to squeeze through after a while.

However, with this oh so depressing thought comes a new mantra: I’m breaking down the fucking wall. I have been sitting on my dumplings waiting for some assistance, some lifeline, some clear as day Jesus-walking-on-water type of sign to truly pursue what I want out of this life. I don’t want to miss out on what could be mine. If that window closes, then my caramel latte-induced strength and energy will dig a tunnel. Bust through the wall. Scream the roof down with a shrillness that only dogs can hear. Forget this year. I jacked it up. Yeah. Whatever…… Gotta move past that. Bring it on, 33. This chunky bitch is ready for you.