Blogspot, la batarde.

Now, I don't have any sort of body dysmorphic disorder so I know I'm not actually fat. Nonetheless, when your grandmother, a woman who's been stuffing you full of pig meat for the last twenty years, says your stomach is too big, you freak out. Joe says my love handles are cute, but in my heart of hearts I know he's desperately drafting break-up letters that won't make him sound shallow.

For Christmas, I was contemplating asking for a DDR pad, because I remember freshman year when our suite had two. Trevor and I must have collectively lost one of our weights, jumping around like lepromatous swans to the same three songs. So desperate were our efforts that we had to duct tape the pads to the floor to keep them from being torn from the Playstation. Swetha asks whether DDR is good for trimming tummy fat, to which I replied that DDR is like cocaine--addictive and with no specificity whatsoever. The pounds melt off everywhere and collect like a gel on the floor. It can be used to lubricate gearshafts.

This concern with weight is in odd, given what I asked Joe for Christmas. The conflict between my hunger and my fat midsection is one that I believe is, in the end, unreconcilable. Throughout middle school I ate sandwiches made of thinly sliced deli meats, which was fun, but I always wondered what it'd be like to have my mouth completely filled with Butterball. Though he has yet to deliver, I have confidence that Joe will eventually buy me a full turkey breast, in a belated expression of holiday cheer. In exchange, he gets tickets to Mamma Mia.

forrizzletizzle: it would be funny if he got you suzanne somers workout equipment

This is untrue.

*The Justin comment about Island of the Blue Dolphins concerns an entry that was originally in place of this concerning about my grades this past sememster. I've since deleted it in the fear of appearing to be a douchebag (which I am, but you'd never know from reading this).