Well, it's been easier getting up in the mornings because of my recent work out club that's there in the gym before I am, or at least I pretend they are.
Sure, it's still difficult, especially when I'm snuggling under the warmth of my girl, but now that I've been getting up even earlier, she's too tired to wake me up by nibbling on my ear or caressing my back. She's still asleep, so the only thing I wake up to is her grunting unintelligible groans, and I pretend she's secretly mad that my cell phone alarm went off thrice under the pillow. This is what wakes me up to go to the gym. It's been working so far.
I've found that there are certain benchmarks that occur that gets me even closer to the possibility of going to the gym. Once I've sat up in bed, for instance, is one such threshold. Another is getting my sport bra on. Turning the light in the closet on. Brewing the coffee. These little fulfilled tasks let me know that if I've completed them, I sure as hell should get my ass out the door. Making a circle around the house with my tasks works as well. Get dressed in the closet, travel to the living room to "red up" my professional clothes (my friend told me a great way to remember what to bring in the morning: 1-2-3 undernearth, 1-2-3 on top, which means underneath I need to remember 1) underwear; 2) bra; 3) socks and on the top I need to remember 1) shirt; 2) pants; 3) shoes). Bringing all this gear to work in the morning, and remembering all of it (you'd be surprised how quickly you can forget to bring pants if you have to master bringing your entire professional decor in one little bag plus your nutritious lunch, ipod for music, and purse items including cell phone, cards, and sunglasses), was daunting to me at first. With these small organizational steps, I've been able to bring at least all of this gear. All of this preparation is BEFORE I actually step foot on the eliptical, but of course that's the easy part.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Milk, It does a body
My new healthy goal is to not eat after 8 pm. This is a hard one for me considering I love eating in front of the television, without even thinking about it. I think the difference between gaining and losing weight is the difference between consciousness and subconsciousness. If you want to change something consciously, you have to think about it. It's on the front burner. I'm sitting in front of the television, and I want to have a 100 calorie pack. An apple. Another 100 calorie pack. Some nuts. Now something sweet again. I'm aware of what I'm eating, but I keep doing it. When I was gaining wait, it took the same amount of energy. I may have eaten a full left over meal, or had an extra piece of cheese, or two, or three. When I was gaining weight, I wasn't thinking about gaining weight. It wasn't a goal, long term or short term. It wasn't even particularly something I wanted, although hiding behind fat cells became a hobby of mine, even if I wasn't particularly fond of that hobby. The energy and time it took for me to gain is equal to the energy and time it's taking for me to lose. The only difference is levels of consciousness of that time and energy.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Burnt Breeder
My body. My body is lesbian. Untouched by the Man. In dyke world, we call this “Golden Lesbian.” In raped women’s clubs, they call this lucky. Untouched by Man. My body has purple lines and red striped paint on its inner and outer thighs. Spider veins, first noticed them when I was 17 years old and 117 pounds. They’re back; they never left. They’re fiercely crawling up the sides of my thighs. Lovers can’t see them in the dark. My breasts. If I went to the Oprah bra size show, they’d probably be a size H for hottie. They don’t sell size H at Target. But for now 2 Ds one probably hanging below the seamline of my sexy blouse. Too big to notice. Too low to care.
I protected that small girl 17 year old for ten years. The body just happened to be in and out of gay bars, and in and out of women. Except she knew to keep her mouth shut. Flesh folds of flesh among flesh covering flesh later…
Anger in my inner thighs, burning sensation cannot tell if it’s that sexual feeling or if it’s just in my groin because it has nowhere else to go. Thighs rub together so much that I get rashes. This is one example of Pain. Pain equals fat. Fat equals one monstrosity of a Lesbian. Diagnosis: The only way to release this Pain(fat) from my gut, kidneys, inner thighs, in grown hairs, pubes that turn into red bumps, breasts where it’s too hard to find the nipples, cunts where it’s too hard to find the clit under the mounds of flesh. The only way to release this pain is to watch Someone Else’s. This is not a healthy option.
Option Numero Dos: Search for My body. Shop for size 20 clothing. Go to maternity section of Old Navy, pull Best Friend into Lane Bryant rooms where you have snap the damn bra harness FIVE times for it to stay up, go to maternity specialty store and realize that this store is just for skinny pregnant women. Fat celibate lesbians not wanted here. Only knocked up whitey tighty skinny ass breeder teeny boppers. Shop online for plus sized women instead. Order foo foo drinks at bars and grills. Drink wine because it has fewer calories. Drink beer because it doesn’t matter.
Fat bubbles have been under construction for one decade. There is a long list of materials that were needed in order to build this monstrosity, so we (the construction workers, that is) wrote down as much as we could remember for you (the destroyers) to reference. Physical materials include: cups of half and half in mochas instead of skim milk; the soft parts of bread with more bread and more dough; order fries with that fries with that fries with that fries with that; candy so much candy that the body had to have two root canals; and ice cream cones, cups, sprinkles, chips, and whipped cream with cherries, lots and lots of cherries. Ruby Tuesdays, McDonald’s, Baskin Robbins, Applebee’s, Culvers, Burger King, Any Gas Station to Fill Up, little café over there, big corporate restaurant, take out take out take out take out the body loves campusfood.com.
The construction workers are about finished with this monstrosity of a body, all 238 pounds of her. It took them a full 10 years, and there were some deaths along the way (namely, all the heterosexual male workers to be exact). Fat bubbles of course are the main ingredient. These special cells had to be ordered from a special catalog.
Fat bubbles surround me, are my building blocks, but I am popping out of them. Yes, my baby’s giving birth. The Fat Self I create punctures protrudes penetrates out out out glance in mirror—reflections of side, hips large, belly ring around collar, triple chin. Somewhere inside all of this used to be a 17 year old heterosexual virgin with slippery thighs that didn’t rub together when she walked. She really used to live inside the Fat Self, like living in a coffin or bomb shelter.
17 years old. It was the wettest of times, it was the driest of times. The 17 year old peeked her head out underneath the roof, just barely so she could see all the hot women dancing on top of her. The 17 year old was a Genie in a Bottle. The bottle coffin bomb shelter had lots and lots of pillows, so, like the 17 year old could chill there and spill there for years.
Every time I saw a glimpse of 117 pound beauty, or she came out to peek a little too much, like, when I like, lost any of that goddamned flesh, I, like, would go to the fridge freezer cupboard and pick out my favorite peanut pop or popsicle and suck it munch it and blunt it out until she wasn’t there anymore. Mounds of dressing inside heaps of cream of mushroom soups and slurps and burps and rolls
Doc, I am sorry to report that somewhere in the last few years this creature I have been describing to you died in her sleep. Now I have a dead fetus still inside my body and I want to fucking give labor all ready. She is my tumor, she’s heavy. She’s floating around in my womb, heavy dead weight on me. The 17 year old girl has now become a nuisance, has now becomes the few extra pounds I gained to cover her up. The Thin Self is roasting inside me, all burnt up and shriveled. I can feel her in my fat cells, I can feel her in my cunt’s cells, I can feel her in my thigh leg foot and stomach cells.
THE YOUNG HETEROSEXUAL BODY FINALLY EXPLODED INSIDE A LESBIAN AND WE NEED TO REMOVE IT FOR POTENTIAL RISK OF HEART FAILURE, BLOOD CLOTTING, OR EVEN DEATH. INFORMATION WE HAVE SO FAR:
Victim: “She exploded inside me, and she’s everywhere. Underneath my toes, in my hangnails, in my stomach’s rolls, and even underneath the vastness of my breast in those sweaty corners no one wants to touch. She had a metamorphosis inside my body, and now instead of being the skinny inside, she’s the rolls and craters and spiders and red paint streaks and triple chin on the outside.”
Parasite. We need to remove this carcus immediately. Stat. The fetus is still somehow connected to the victim’s body.
Victim still states: “My body is mine now, but it still doesn’t look like it because this girl (Thin Self herself), her flesh is still on it like a parasite. I can feel her on me. So when the fat cellulite jiggles and giggles, I can hear her! I want her off. I loathe her. I am 28, I’m ready to have sex in this body, to give birth to a new baby (not her) in this body, I’m ready to cum in this body.”
I’ve been mappin out this continent of a body for some time now. A decade, really. I’ve been around long enough to know it’s not mine anymore. I know the campus well, could be a tour guide for the prospective little lesbian students who want to find where their first class is in this mess of a school. Sure, it’s familiar territory. Sliding down purple spiders’ veins, splashing more red paint streaks on her inner thigh’s walls, or dipping in and out of the craters like it’s Mars. I know this place, I’ve lived here for years, it’s been my home, sanctuary. I’ve come out in it, had sex with it, slept in its squishy clouds and played in the pubic forests, but it’s time to check out the UHaul prices. Check it out; get a free lesbian quote online.
I did.
And I'm movin' out.
I protected that small girl 17 year old for ten years. The body just happened to be in and out of gay bars, and in and out of women. Except she knew to keep her mouth shut. Flesh folds of flesh among flesh covering flesh later…
Anger in my inner thighs, burning sensation cannot tell if it’s that sexual feeling or if it’s just in my groin because it has nowhere else to go. Thighs rub together so much that I get rashes. This is one example of Pain. Pain equals fat. Fat equals one monstrosity of a Lesbian. Diagnosis: The only way to release this Pain(fat) from my gut, kidneys, inner thighs, in grown hairs, pubes that turn into red bumps, breasts where it’s too hard to find the nipples, cunts where it’s too hard to find the clit under the mounds of flesh. The only way to release this pain is to watch Someone Else’s. This is not a healthy option.
Option Numero Dos: Search for My body. Shop for size 20 clothing. Go to maternity section of Old Navy, pull Best Friend into Lane Bryant rooms where you have snap the damn bra harness FIVE times for it to stay up, go to maternity specialty store and realize that this store is just for skinny pregnant women. Fat celibate lesbians not wanted here. Only knocked up whitey tighty skinny ass breeder teeny boppers. Shop online for plus sized women instead. Order foo foo drinks at bars and grills. Drink wine because it has fewer calories. Drink beer because it doesn’t matter.
Fat bubbles have been under construction for one decade. There is a long list of materials that were needed in order to build this monstrosity, so we (the construction workers, that is) wrote down as much as we could remember for you (the destroyers) to reference. Physical materials include: cups of half and half in mochas instead of skim milk; the soft parts of bread with more bread and more dough; order fries with that fries with that fries with that fries with that; candy so much candy that the body had to have two root canals; and ice cream cones, cups, sprinkles, chips, and whipped cream with cherries, lots and lots of cherries. Ruby Tuesdays, McDonald’s, Baskin Robbins, Applebee’s, Culvers, Burger King, Any Gas Station to Fill Up, little café over there, big corporate restaurant, take out take out take out take out the body loves campusfood.com.
The construction workers are about finished with this monstrosity of a body, all 238 pounds of her. It took them a full 10 years, and there were some deaths along the way (namely, all the heterosexual male workers to be exact). Fat bubbles of course are the main ingredient. These special cells had to be ordered from a special catalog.
Fat bubbles surround me, are my building blocks, but I am popping out of them. Yes, my baby’s giving birth. The Fat Self I create punctures protrudes penetrates out out out glance in mirror—reflections of side, hips large, belly ring around collar, triple chin. Somewhere inside all of this used to be a 17 year old heterosexual virgin with slippery thighs that didn’t rub together when she walked. She really used to live inside the Fat Self, like living in a coffin or bomb shelter.
17 years old. It was the wettest of times, it was the driest of times. The 17 year old peeked her head out underneath the roof, just barely so she could see all the hot women dancing on top of her. The 17 year old was a Genie in a Bottle. The bottle coffin bomb shelter had lots and lots of pillows, so, like the 17 year old could chill there and spill there for years.
Every time I saw a glimpse of 117 pound beauty, or she came out to peek a little too much, like, when I like, lost any of that goddamned flesh, I, like, would go to the fridge freezer cupboard and pick out my favorite peanut pop or popsicle and suck it munch it and blunt it out until she wasn’t there anymore. Mounds of dressing inside heaps of cream of mushroom soups and slurps and burps and rolls
Doc, I am sorry to report that somewhere in the last few years this creature I have been describing to you died in her sleep. Now I have a dead fetus still inside my body and I want to fucking give labor all ready. She is my tumor, she’s heavy. She’s floating around in my womb, heavy dead weight on me. The 17 year old girl has now become a nuisance, has now becomes the few extra pounds I gained to cover her up. The Thin Self is roasting inside me, all burnt up and shriveled. I can feel her in my fat cells, I can feel her in my cunt’s cells, I can feel her in my thigh leg foot and stomach cells.
THE YOUNG HETEROSEXUAL BODY FINALLY EXPLODED INSIDE A LESBIAN AND WE NEED TO REMOVE IT FOR POTENTIAL RISK OF HEART FAILURE, BLOOD CLOTTING, OR EVEN DEATH. INFORMATION WE HAVE SO FAR:
Victim: “She exploded inside me, and she’s everywhere. Underneath my toes, in my hangnails, in my stomach’s rolls, and even underneath the vastness of my breast in those sweaty corners no one wants to touch. She had a metamorphosis inside my body, and now instead of being the skinny inside, she’s the rolls and craters and spiders and red paint streaks and triple chin on the outside.”
Parasite. We need to remove this carcus immediately. Stat. The fetus is still somehow connected to the victim’s body.
Victim still states: “My body is mine now, but it still doesn’t look like it because this girl (Thin Self herself), her flesh is still on it like a parasite. I can feel her on me. So when the fat cellulite jiggles and giggles, I can hear her! I want her off. I loathe her. I am 28, I’m ready to have sex in this body, to give birth to a new baby (not her) in this body, I’m ready to cum in this body.”
I’ve been mappin out this continent of a body for some time now. A decade, really. I’ve been around long enough to know it’s not mine anymore. I know the campus well, could be a tour guide for the prospective little lesbian students who want to find where their first class is in this mess of a school. Sure, it’s familiar territory. Sliding down purple spiders’ veins, splashing more red paint streaks on her inner thigh’s walls, or dipping in and out of the craters like it’s Mars. I know this place, I’ve lived here for years, it’s been my home, sanctuary. I’ve come out in it, had sex with it, slept in its squishy clouds and played in the pubic forests, but it’s time to check out the UHaul prices. Check it out; get a free lesbian quote online.
I did.
And I'm movin' out.
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