30 mins or less - dissatisfaction guaranteed

This is the blog on which my fortune will be built. Ha! Just pulling your chain, I’ll put together a half-assed post in no longer than 30 mins so that I can continue preparing for my day’s events. I rarely spend more than 30 mins on these things, but don’t let that be an indicator of how much I care about your experience. Let that speak to how little I care about the quality of product I stamp my name to.

It’s true. I’ll re-read stuff that I’ve written and think: I could have expanded on that thought and made it much funnier and completely fleshed out that idea. My immediate following thought is: Nah. I am the living embodiment of: whatever, I guess this works.

So, once I get off my ass and stop torturing you with this drivel, I’ll go to the gym and run [more on that later] and then get ready for a birthday party later. Normally I hate birthday parties. I fucking hate walking around someone’s backyard pretending to not be weird. Better still, making small talk with people you’d rather see, after a day at the beach, having had their clothing stolen, make the long and embarrassing walk home naked [because in my fantasy their cars don’t work either.]

Not today though. Today I’ll be going to a party where we’ll be celebrating a baby. She’s adorable, with a smile that is infectious and if her mother turns her back on her for too long, I might kidnap her. Legit, she is the next Gerber baby and my fucking meal ticket. No more writing these shitty blogs.

Parties with kids and pets – that’s my jam. If you don’t have those essential ingredients, don’t expect me to show up. If I do, I’ll be in corner next to the smokers trying desperately to inhale second hand smoke while bitching about the weather. It will either be too hot or too cold, too overcast, or there will be too many insects. Kid parties are the best! Not because I’m creepy, but because children are fucking rad. Their innocence is beautiful. They also haven’t formed judgement against me yet. To them, I’m still a funny old lady. A good lady; I dig that shit.

Back to the whole “running” thing and then I’ll close this bitch out because time is a for-real issue.

 Alright, it’s my understanding that some crackheads run because it’s a good cardiovascular workout or the endorphins feel great. Bullshit! I call motherfucking bullshit on that! I’ve never gone for a run and thought: This is going to be great! This is so good for me! I can’t wait to get out there! No, sir! Whether I run on the treadmill, or I go for an outdoor run, I am doing the same thing – I am running away from being a fat-ass. As a former fat-ass, I can say that shit. Those of you that take issue with it can promptly go fuck off.

Having been 240 lbs. at age 16, I believe I’ve earned the right to say “fat-ass” without having 80 of you jump down my throat about how insensitive I am. I was tortured as a child. I don’t intend to go back there, ever. That’s why I run. I suppose I could use the elliptical, but I don’t sweat nearly as much. I’m drenched after a run. Every time my feet hit the ground, every mile I run, I’m further away from the childhood ridicule. I’ve sweat out my anger, my fear, and the intolerance I faced as a child. I have nothing against heavyset people. If it doesn’t interfere with quality of life, health, or your mental and emotional well-being – more power to you. I was not so fortunate. I continue to pay.

When you hear me talk about my running, it’s not because I’m a super athlete or because I think I’m super dope – it’s because I’m super insecure. People who talk about their workout routines all the time are fucking gross. Unless you’re a trainer, or preparing for a competition, I don’t give a shit - save your breath. Vegans are the same. Why would you think I’d give two shits about your choice to omit all things tasty from your diet? Who hurt you? Did I ask? And no, I don’t care to hear about your pineapple-kale smoothie recipe. Sounds like diarrhea to me.

 

Great! Now that I’ve properly offended overweight folks and vegans, it looks like my 30 mins are up. I’ve got this blog cat in my lap that I’ll have to break the news to: get the fuck up, I’m outta here!  This unfortunate cat loves me. I think he understands what an asshole I am. He seems to care for me regardless. Either that or he’s just bidding his time; waiting for me to die so that he can feed off my carcass. It’s what I would do if I were him.