I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
Anyway, you know I will stick to no diet because food is the first, last and only thought on my mind at any one time so I figured that I could justify the amount I eat (enough to feed all them homeless people that torment me with their ‘hey fatty give us some change’ taunts’) if I up-ed the amount of walking I do. Or I could go to the gym. Ha! Imagine this dollop at the gym with all them slender types with muscles in places there should never be muscles, with those super skinnies who shimmy themselves around the gym as though they are either on the dancefloor or in a porno. Vomitice? It really is. Jealous? I really am. I wish I could open my legs wider than a 50 year old whore or maybe even more than a millimetre so they chaf no more. There’s nothing worse than friction burns at the top of your thighs.
I had a conversation with someone the other day about ‘gym fear’ and we thought we might begin our own little dance class for those, like us who are too scared of wobbling our bits around in front of them bleached blonde, manly muscled types. We thought we’d call it ‘Dollops Do Dance’. We’ve yet to recruit an instructor but at the rate the Queen of Fun is going, with all them pies for breakfast and all them peanut butter M&Ms she’s scoffing, I think she is a likely candidate. Anyone else wanna come along and shake those 5 bellies and wiggle all your asses in the one place? The only specification is that you must have more than 1 chin and your thighs must rub at the top and your knees must be dimply and you must have dollopy fingers which could be mistaken as pork sausages. See you there fellow dollops.
And so I go to remove all mirrors from my house because if I have another tantrum in front of one because my hair is baggy or my ass is wide or my bellies are trippin’ me up or my feet are broader than Brazil, I am likely to do myself, or at least the mirror, an injury. I therefore conclude that I am indeed vile.
Listening to: The merry sound of cheese being sliced and being placed upon 16 (I mean 6 … really) cream crackers and being topped with Branston pickle. Heaven really is a place on earth. Cheers Belinda.
Also Listening to: Justin’s album, beautiful. I love him.
11/19/2002 02:53:00 PM
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