the only thing worse
than bad memories
is no memories at all..
[dismemberment plan]
9.27.2004
Office Elephantitis.
Thanks to a friend of mine, I have a nice part-time job as a receptionist at a graphic design office.
There was a point in time that I would have considered myself the "office hotty" -- especially since, well, I was the only girl working there. But that all changed when my co-workers realized that I have absolutely no self control over my formidable appetite.
My boss started buying munchkins -- I once ate an entire box by myself in one sitting.
Then, my co-worker brought two boxes of cookies -- I ate both boxes and shook all the crumbs out and ate those too.
Then, my other co-worker gave me a bag of jellybeans -- I emptied the entire baggie into my mouth at once and probably gave myself diabetes.
With this constant and seemingly neverending supply of little plastic bags of goodies turning up on my desk, I've evolved into some kind of horrifying, melty swamp monster that crawled out of the sewer and into an ill-fitting cardigan sweater. Today, as I type this, I have officially gone down the sugary, starchy path from being the hypothetical office hotty to the office fatty.
No longer can I wear the miniskirts and blouses (I have popped a few buttons off while trying) and high heels without looking like a big, fat, silly buffoon. All of my hot office clothes are hanging in my closet, the hollow shells of my somewhat shapely past, lost and useless but not yet forgotten. Have you ever seen an elephant in the circus wearing a frilly tutu taking a crap on a clown? Hi, that's me.
My gut hangs over my belt, if the belt fits at all anymore. My elephantitis-stricken calves are now indistinguishable from my miserably swollen, bloated ankles. My fat, fluid-filled feet are torn and hardened from being smashed into constricting high heel shoes. My fingers have grown to the size of canned vienna sausages and are mere degrees away from being unable to type or dial without a special wand. When I walk at a brisk pace while wearing corduroy pants (which I can fit into on a good day), I smell like a burning ham on rollerskates.
What the fuck has HAPPENED to me? Now, the only thing I can wear are huge billowy curtain-sized skirts, one size fits all baggy sweaters, and "sensible" (i.e. old people) extra wide shoes.
Good going, guys. Yeah, that's right, keep feeding me like a caged animal for your own amusement. Yeah, laugh it up, Chuckles, when I'm writhing on the floor in an agonizing pancreas overload with my enormous parachute-sized skirt pulled over my head, seconds away from a sugar-induced coma. Stick a spoon in my mouth so I don't swallow my own tongue if it's not too much trouble. Bottom line is: When you're forced to watch a sea slug crawl from the computer to the fax machine in a disgustingly inappropriate outfit with slabs of fat folding over the neckline and bursting through the seams, the only people you're hurting are yourselves. Remember that.
Sez Mom:
speedymom: i think ur body need severe exercise
speedymom: that,s why in ur dream u trid work very hard
speedymom: almost feel like die
[Peek-a-Foo]