Seriously, I am!
So I'm really going to begin this journal. blog. Whatever. Actually, I don't give a shit what it's called so long as my mother never ever finds out about it. Wait. Can I change the font on this thing?
How about this? ewww. Way too big (ha- just wait, that'll be a funny pun by the end of this post!) Seriously, you can probably skip this part. I'll get my act together shortly. This is the same as the first font, isn't it? This is too normal. Oh, god. I'm a robot. Oh, yeah. This is the one. (It's called Trebuchet, if you care).
Ok. Why am I doing this? I'm sure all the gory details will come out eventually in this site, but I'd rather start in the present. Which is to say on the toilet. I've ordered Dominos tonight, a cheeseburger pizza (part because it's on special, part because my son made me order one last week and eat a piece and it was good, but not at all because that wanker Trump was hawking it all over television). Medium, if you must know. So I'm eating, I'm watching television, and six pieces in, I get a strong urge to barf. So, I stop eating, I keep watching Num3ers, and an hour or so later, the urge to barf has successfully morphed into the desperate urge to take a painful dump. Flash to bathroom. Crossword book in hand, I twelve-across my way through the worst of it. So far, you are with me right? We've all suffered gastro-intestinal pain, and you know from whence I came, right? So let's move right into the shame. The shame is that after my Domino's is delivered for the second time tonight, my little ritual begins. Grab the toilet paper. A LOT of it, because I want maximum coverage here. Grab the wall next the toilet & twist around (like an oblique exercise). Brace my elbow on the toilet tank, and use the combo of the tank and the wall as leverage to get my hand close enough to my asshole and wipe myself.
There's a huge portion of the population, even in America, who are both disgusted and a little confused by that last paragraph. But even sadder is that there is a goodly chunk of the population that knows what I am talking about. That daily performs what I am talking about. Why? Literally, because my ass (and theirs) are that big.
Q: Where does a 300 pound gorilla sleep?
A: Anywhere he wants!
Typing that joke results in a bit of cognitive dissonance. I mean on the one hand, ha. On the other, uh, I weigh more than a 300 pound gorilla [or a 300 pound anything for that matter.] And I don't sleep anywhere I want-- see exhibit a: freakish preoccupation with falling asleep anywhere, lest anyone be subject to my outrageous snoring. See also exhibit b: in which neither angelina jolie nor chris bridges are knocking down my door, to say nothing of real, live prospective partnets.
This site is going to be dedicated to my ramblings on life, weight & loss, and whatever the hell else I want to right about. Welcome.
How about this? ewww. Way too big (ha- just wait, that'll be a funny pun by the end of this post!) Seriously, you can probably skip this part. I'll get my act together shortly. This is the same as the first font, isn't it? This is too normal. Oh, god. I'm a robot. Oh, yeah. This is the one. (It's called Trebuchet, if you care).
Ok. Why am I doing this? I'm sure all the gory details will come out eventually in this site, but I'd rather start in the present. Which is to say on the toilet. I've ordered Dominos tonight, a cheeseburger pizza (part because it's on special, part because my son made me order one last week and eat a piece and it was good, but not at all because that wanker Trump was hawking it all over television). Medium, if you must know. So I'm eating, I'm watching television, and six pieces in, I get a strong urge to barf. So, I stop eating, I keep watching Num3ers, and an hour or so later, the urge to barf has successfully morphed into the desperate urge to take a painful dump. Flash to bathroom. Crossword book in hand, I twelve-across my way through the worst of it. So far, you are with me right? We've all suffered gastro-intestinal pain, and you know from whence I came, right? So let's move right into the shame. The shame is that after my Domino's is delivered for the second time tonight, my little ritual begins. Grab the toilet paper. A LOT of it, because I want maximum coverage here. Grab the wall next the toilet & twist around (like an oblique exercise). Brace my elbow on the toilet tank, and use the combo of the tank and the wall as leverage to get my hand close enough to my asshole and wipe myself.
There's a huge portion of the population, even in America, who are both disgusted and a little confused by that last paragraph. But even sadder is that there is a goodly chunk of the population that knows what I am talking about. That daily performs what I am talking about. Why? Literally, because my ass (and theirs) are that big.
Q: Where does a 300 pound gorilla sleep?
A: Anywhere he wants!
Typing that joke results in a bit of cognitive dissonance. I mean on the one hand, ha. On the other, uh, I weigh more than a 300 pound gorilla [or a 300 pound anything for that matter.] And I don't sleep anywhere I want-- see exhibit a: freakish preoccupation with falling asleep anywhere, lest anyone be subject to my outrageous snoring. See also exhibit b: in which neither angelina jolie nor chris bridges are knocking down my door, to say nothing of real, live prospective partnets.
This site is going to be dedicated to my ramblings on life, weight & loss, and whatever the hell else I want to right about. Welcome.
posted by Jaime at
9:12 PM
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