With Apologies to Dorothy Parker
This is not a post to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.
Do you ever have one of those days? A day when every imperfection, real or imagined, seems exaggerated. When those rolls of fat that were most likely in existence yesterday are ten times rollier today, and you know that the pants that fit last week look ready to burst at the seams?
When the small scab from the popped pimple threatens to take over your face, and you’re positive that your shirt shrunk in the wash?
When the weekend biking and jogging had the opposite of the intended effect, and you know (without verification from the scale, which always lies about everything anyway, that bitch, and I’m pretty sure that it can only knows one number anyways, because why else would it say the same goddamn thing every time I step on it?) you’ve put on at least 10 pounds?
Of course, this always happens after you’ve cleaned out your closet and tossed all those too-big garments that you haven’t worn for over a year now, anyways, so why keep them.
And even your skills at constructing readable sentences have deserted you, and you’re left with a steam-of-consciousness entry that more closely resembles a bad case of logorrhea the morning after a night of wallowing with Hunter S. Thompson, Edgar Allan Poe, William Faulkner and Sylvia Plath.
I just wish I was more comfortable in my skin.
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