It’s that time of year again. Time to determine my New Year’s Resolutions. Considering the last two weeks of my life have been a Bacchanalian cheese filled gorge fest replete with peppermint flavored anything and everything, I think I’m going to try to be….ugh…healthy.
Can I get a small Diet Coke with that?
I fail at healthy year after year. If I was healthy, I wouldn’t be sad, and if I wasn’t sad, I wouldn’t have a wealth of self-deprecating humor at my fingertips. My pudgy, grease-stained, lard filled fingertips.
Each year comes with a Ramona Singer like promise of true renewal. I imagine a life where I am as thin as Lara Flynn Boyle with abs like Hugh Jackman. I get really gung-ho about working out and eating right and then one night I end up crying with fistfuls of gummi bears pouring of my nose.
I feel so renewed right now.
The way I feel right now is bad. Like, eggnog filled caramel apple Jell-O shots bad. I have Crisco seeping out of pores, I haven’t shaved my happy trail since Thanksgiving, and I want to lie down on my mom’s staircase landing carpet and quietly die.
As I get older, the sinking realization of “this is your life. You’re cooked. Deal with it, asshole” gets more and more real. The desperation of my vanishing youth only seems to amplify the crippling emotional issues at the core of my overeating disorder.
That was weird and depressing. Here’s a picture of Amanda Bynes’s tits on NYE to cheer you up!
Happy New Year! Love, my tits
Let me ask you, what New Year’s Resolutions do you plan on breaking in 2 weeks?