I’m dumb, she’s a thespian.
So I promise, with you all as my witnesses, that no matter how fat I get, I will always wear pants that are my size, even if I have to wear a size 48. And that’s big. I will never, ever, ever have muffin top. I swear to you.
Now, you don’t have to be fat to have muffin top. I’ve seen plenty of girls smaller than me with it. You just have to wear pants that actually fit you. I know it sucks to have to walk out of a store carrying the biggest size avaliable, but hear you me, you’re carrying those pants in a bag. Nobody else at the mall knows what size you wear except you and the checkout chick.
That said, there’s a reason the tag is on the inside. Just get the size you wear, and when someone is rude enough to ask you what size you wear, first make sure they aren’t asking you because they want to buy you pants for your birthday, and then proudly reply, “Two.” Nobody has to know that you don’t wear a size two. The wrong style pants can make any two turn into a twenty two.
Somebody once told me that the freezing temperature can turn six to two.
I have an announcement, ladies and germs. The founding fathers of our country, or at least our buffalo nickles, are sick, beastialitous perverts. Look at this:
There you have it, folks, an unnessecary penis on the nickle. Why. Why does this buffalo need a penis.
Oh my gosh, Liz, that’s disgusting.
You’re right, kids, that is disgusting. What we have here is a bona fide case of the heebly jeeblies. But we mustn’t focus on what kind of sicko found this buffalo penis, but the buffalo penis itself.
…
Speaking of which, I had a conversation with Alley Jo:
Liz: This [Sexual... Omlettes] blog is better than the last two.
Alley: Meh, I don’t really read them. I just look at the pictures.
Kind of like Playboy.
They do have some really good articles, though. I’ve got my own boobs to look at.
Speaking of which, holy geez, I think I’m going through puberty again.
I went to ballet today for the first time in like a month. I wore a skirt, because Mrs. Sacchi is always saying something about my hips, esp. when she hasn’t seen me in ages. Welp, she didn’t say anything about my hips, but she said something about my massive knockers.
She’s just jealous.
Just kidding. Sacchi’s are twice as big as mine. She just doesn’t like it when people gain weight. Especially me.
Her daughter’s even worse. When I was recovering from anorexia, she told me to lay off the french fries.
Way to send me into a relapse, Nanci, gah.
Emily talked to me from the Caman Islands! She’ll be back Monday, and she told me, “Get your white, luscious, scarred ass to ballet Monday.”
Oh, that Emily. She’s my friend, I don’t care how absolutely different we are.
But seriously, she is really weird. She just puts up a good front. She’s like a Cornbob in my ear and a Facehead on my foot.
When she got an orthodontial appliance put in her mouth in the eighth grade, she talked funny, of course, and well, being her friend, I shamelessly made fun of her, as I would any other. Seeing as she’s African coloured, and I’m Russian coloured, we can’t very well share makeup, but this being middle school, she just -had- to borrow mine, because there’s no way we would go out in public makeupless. (Alot has changed, hasn’t it?).
“Oh my gosche, Lische. Thische blusche ische de schame colour asche my fasche.”
I laughed at her.
She got a little pissched. Er, pissed.
She did talk like our dear old Mr. Parr, though.
And while we’re on the topic, she and Kaylie Wright used to force feed me.
You all know how I’ve always said that true love is when there is no need to shower. Well, many of you know that when you are truly in love, you fall more and more deeply in love with that person every day. Eventually, not needing to shower just barely scratches the surface.
There is now a more extreme love. X-treme if you will. Love to the max. Teh Max0rz, even.
You’re doing your boyfriend’s laundry. Since he never puts his clean clothes in his drawers (hehe), you come across two pair of blue underwear on the floor. You know that he’s only worn one pair of blue underwear lately, so only one pair is dirty:
True love is when you sniff them to see which pair is the dirty pair.
And yes, this has happened before. I quickly found out which pair was the dirty one, and I didn’t mind a bit.
And just to be fair, true love is also when he picks up your dirty underwear from last night after they have been laying on the floor for nine hours… sunny side up.
Jamie Isbell and I went out tonight. It was cut short because we’re ascared of teh str0mz0rz, but we did have fun while it lasted. We went to Los Portales. We listened to The Unicorns in my car. We caught up on thangs.
One time, we went out to lunch at Buckets and both got quesadillas. Let me tell you something: It’s no coincidence that quesadilla and diarrhea rhyme.
I had a quesadilla tonight, but no after effect. I did poop, but it wasn’t bad. It did take me much longer than usual though… about 3-4 minutes. I read the back of my Sunscreen bottle.
Did you know that I can get up to 80 minutes of sun protection with one application?
I don’t have much more material, but I don’t want to end the blog on a poopy note.
Did you hear the one about the bullfrog?
I had a crazy dream. I won’t go into full detail, but you know those little capsules you put in a glass of water and it turns into a dinosaur or something? Matt’s penis.
That’s all I’m saying.
So in conclusion, the storm has passed, but my cat is still outside. He’s real fluffy.