” YOUR SKINNY JEANS
WILL SELF DESTRUCT IN 30 MIN.
THIS MESSAGE WON’T. “
THIS, may come as a surprise to hear. Or not… judging from how you rationalize things. Well, let’s just say based on the look of things on this blog, this will come either as a gasping surprise, or, as the most obvious conclusion to any. But what I’m trying to tell you, and this is a true story, is that every night before I go to sleep, the ever-last thought that I’m either saying or thinking before drifting into oblivion is alway this…
#$#$^@#!! I swear I’m gonna go on a fucking diet.
It’s true. You see the thing is, I’m a side-sleeper. And side-sleepers feel things. Things that, with all due respect, back-sleepers wouldn’t necessarily feel so bluntly and graphically and that is, the horror upon realizing that my gut can move freely in 180 degree angle, and rest soundly on the mattress like a soft pouch of cottage cheese. Did you know this about my gut? Why am I always the last to know…
I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I am not beyond reasons. I’m aware of the normal shape of things for a humanoid, and I have acknowledgement of the ancient nutritional pyramid built by aliens to assist mankind, I swear. There was a lemon-olive-oil-pasta-thingy that was supposed to be here today to demonstrate that I’m well-balanced and eat vegetables. I don’t know what happened to that.. maybe because, purely guessing, that it didn’t taste as good as this donut.
Right, this is a baaad donut. A very gooood, bad donut. I had a sun-dress that just arrived in mail and I got very angry at it, if you know what I mean. And you would believe me when I say that I would not surrender my prospect into a spaghetti-strap sun-dress this summer, just over any donut, wouldn’t you?
No, no I won’t, because this is not just any donut.