That’s my closet now. I guess you wouldn’t know this but it used to be full of shirts. I took out everything that doesn’t fit anymore, leaving me with like five wearable things. That picture is actually padded -- a couple of those are too big, and one is a white shirt that’s had a mark on it so long it’s just a feature of the garment as opposed to a stain. I think it was at one time either lipstick or a drink called a Hurricane, but I can’t recall, because of a drink called a Hurricane.
Right now, well before I begin chugging a pound of water, I weigh 259 lbs. I haven’t seen this number in quite a while. You’ll notice that I was actually able to coax a weight out of my scale. This is solely due to a very extensive and complex process of gestures and ambush tactics. I don’t really even feel good about this, though; I pretty much cheated. I neglected to eat any food that was not a whiskey ginger for 25 hours this week. But by no means starved, as my foot was lodged way too deep in my mouth to even feel hunger.
There are accidents, and there are Accidents. An accident might be dropping an expensive wine glass on the floor, or spilling an entire plate of raspberry sauce on some poor korean tourist sitting below you at the Disneyland Aladdin lunch show. It’s embarrassing, your face is red, but these things happen.
But an Accident, those are the ones that just reaffirm you’re probably an asshole. Mine was texting the wrong goddamn image.
I can never fuck up small. I sent this picture to a person who somehow ranks even lower than “my own mother” on the “people who should see this picture” list. This list actually contains everyone, ever, and as soon as I realized what picture had actually been sent, I figured my only choice was to try and own it, and maybe salvage the situation. But instead I ate a face full of interpersonal relationship concrete, made worse by Hallmark discontinuing its “Sorry I sent you a picture of my genitals” line of cards.
This, coupled with the return of my dear friend self-loathing, kept me sustained for an astonishingly long period of time. I clocked in at 4lbs lost on Wednesday. That’s probably not super healthy.
I don’t even know how to fix this situation, but I’m going to start at “make a cake” and work my way up the ladder from there. The worst fucking part is, right before I accidentally Anthony Weiner’d this undeserving soul, I made a joke about doing exactly that.
Context is everything.
NOTE: Nope, I was completely wrong, do not do this if you don’t already have a degree in cake making. You come out looking like a stalker, and whatever comes out of your oven will look like a war crime.