Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Jack,

We’ve had many fun years together, haven’t we? I still remember the day we met in high school. Those $0.99 tacos, all fresh and steamy and made just for me were the key to my heart. And when you made me my first Ultimate Cheeseburger, you filled my soul with deliciousness.

These past fifteen years have been so wonderful.

I’m sure you’ve noticed how distant I’ve been as of late. Until last night and this morning. It was great being back together, even though it was only a short time.

I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t do this anymore. I have to put myself first. My body just can’t take what you have anymore. All the soy, dairy, eggs, and meat. I’ve always loved the way you handled them, just as I’ve always loved everything about you from that first afternoon so very long ago.

It’s not you, Jack. It’s me. I can no longer process your culinary goodness. My body rejects it faster than Volvo rejects my credit score.

Please know I still, and always will, love you, Jack. And we’ll always have those late nights we shared together, even if they’re only memories.


Day 2 (okay, it’s day three, but I was busy on day two…)

So I previously posted about this new “getting healthy” plan from my insurance company and how I’m supposed to answer these stupid questions everyday for a week or so.  Today’s question:

Day 2:
My relationship to my body
“If my body could talk to me, what would it say?”

I think my body would say, “Damn stupid mother-fucker!  What the fuck have you been doing to us?  Is there some kind of reason you’ve been putting us through this horrible abuse for the past 20-something years?  You don’t eat right.  You smoke like a blown radiator on a cold day.  You don’t sleep nearly enough to keep me even slightly happy.  What gives?  What did I ever do to you?

“Oh, that’s right, I only make sure you’re lungs work (even though you treat them like shit…what kind of asthmatic smokes a pack or two EVERY FUCKING DAY?) and your heart beats and your food gets digested… Oh… Wait…  Are you pissed off because I refuse to be happy with eggs and milk products again?  Well too fucking bad you little shithead!  Daddy’s gotta get his revenge somehow, right?  You treat me like shit, I’m gonna make you feel like you’re gonna shit your pants every time you eat something that tastes even remotely good.  Don’t like it?  TREAT ME BETTER!

“Remember that ex you wish you’d treated better?  That one you wish had never gotten away?  I’m gonna be like that.  Now our spine’s fucked up.  You may or may not have had a myocardial infarction AT TWENTYFUCKINGTHREEYEARSOLD!  Haven’t you learned anything?  SLOW DOWN!  CALM DOWN!  Enjoy the ride we’re on.  Take care of us!  Eat better and exercise!  And for the love of all that is clean and fresh QUIT FUCKING SMOKING!”

At least, that’s what I think the world wants me to think my body would tell me.  I think it would simply say, “DUDE!  REALLY?  GET US FUCKING LAID ALREADY!”

The world makes NO sense whatsoever!

So they refused to pick up our recycling yesterday.  And why did they refuse to pick up our recycling, you ask?  Because we didn’t waste plastic bags by putting the recyclables inside of them.  Because, hello, we’re trying to be green and we can’t very well be wasteful and green, now, can we?  That’s like telling your kid, “Hey, sweetie, see that pot on the stove?  It’s going to be very, VERY hot.  Why don’t you go over and grab it by the sides with your bare hands for Daddy?  Who’s a good girl?”

And I’ve been on a hunt for two things, lately:  asparagus and an mp3 player.  I have had no luck finding either and it’s kind of upsetting.  I mean, yeah, sure, I could by the overly expensive asparagus in the plastic steamer bag for $5, but, you know what?  I don’t want to!  Hell, if I wanted to spend that much on one meal, I’d just go to some fast food joint and get a burger.

No, don’t get me started on the people, either!  Ok, I’ve gotten myself started on the people.

Went to Wal-Mart, and what did I find?  Nothing that I needed, but I did find two chunky girls dancing in the parking lot for two hot guys.  And then another chick pulled up (saying she was chunky would be the understatement of the year) and joined them and grabbed one of the other chick’s boyfriend’s crotch, and then everyone got in their cars and drove away.

I mean, if you have an open relationship, cool.  If you like 300+ pound women, also cool.  But that doesn’t mean that I need to see it.  Crotch grabbing is something that should either be kept in the bedroom or used as self-defense (remember, you have to twist and squeeze for the ultimate effect).  I don’t go around grabbing crotches in public.  That woman is a pubic nuisance!

And before I start getting hate mail or horrified screaming comments about “fatphobia” and the like, let me say this:  I do not like skinny women.  You’ve gotta have some meat on your bones for me to even notice your existence.  But I do draw the line at about 250 pounds for my own personal preference and safety.  I dated a 400 pound chick and, well, let’s just say that’s a post for another day, shall we?