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I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else My Profile
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I went shopping in Glasgow at the weekend. I had saved space up on my credit card for the occasion and looked forward to it with the excitement of The Queen of Fun in a sweet shop. I went out the evening before and knew I would be hungover for the shopping event of the month. Well come on, I’d had 4 drinks. So, I woke up looking like an oaty turd and feeling as irritable as a bowel syndrome. I knew it was going to be a bad day. I didn’t know that by the time we arrived in Glasgow that we would only have 4 hours worth of shopping time! 4 Hours! It takes that long just to stand in the changing room queue in bloody H&M for fucks sake! What a farce I say, what a farce! So, it was one of them days where nothing fitted, shops were sweaty, and things that did fit would have looked better on a hippo. I was not amused and I wanted to batter every fat calved person that came my way. With all that money to spend I cam home with 2 belts, a wallet and a shirt that I almost had a panic attack over, that fitted as comfortably as a condom over the face. I decided there and then, like I always do when I have an emotional breakdown in every shop because my belly is too lardy too even fold into jeans and when even my wrists (my only slender feature goddamn!) couldn’t finds an accessory that suited, that I was going on another diet. Being a fatso does nothing for my already fragile mental state I tell you. And being a fatso does nothing for the clothes I try to hide it under. I tried on about 16 pairs of jeans of varying sizes, from the ‘slightly above average’ to the ‘jesus 2 baby elephants would fit in here’ and either my thighs were emphasised to a point way beyond piss taking or my belly hung so far over the jeans that they almost met my boobs around the knee area. And it was when I sat down in a changing room, to sob into the denim delights that would never be mine that I noticed just how large and accentuated my fanny is in my favourite jeans. It’s fucking massive! It’s no dainty dairylea triangle but really it’s more like the size of a pillow. I may never sit down in these jeans again. No one needs to see the over exaggerated size of Miss Fee’s ‘love triangle’. How vile.
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. Britney Wannabe 
11/19/2002 02:53:00 PM
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Adventures of Charmin |
