Apparently I am a fat hog.

It was a bright and beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. All was beauteous and good.

And then I allowed a member of the male sex to attempt to guess my weight. At which point, I experienced a sensation not unlike TOTAL DESPERATION AND DESPAIR. And the rest was kind of a muddy haze after that. Somehow it is 6 hours later and I find myself slumped over in front of my computer, scraping out the last remnants of a half-gallon of oreo cookie ice cream.

Apparently, I look as though I weigh a whopping ELEVEN POUNDS more than I do. Which by my estimations is AN F---ING LOT. As a matter of fact, I spend 6 days week at the F---ING gym attempting NOT to look like I weigh ELEVEN POUNDS more than my current weight. Fat lot of good THAT has been doing me (pun intended).

The upshot is that I raced home from hearing the horrible news and leaped onto my scale to discover that I actually weigh TWO POUNDS LESS than I THOUGHT I weighed. Which helps a little, I suppose. However, the BAD news is that now I have a complete complex about it. I was not aware that I was husky. Curvaceous, sure. (BTW, when I looked this word up in the dictionary to make sure I spelled it correctly, it indicated a "well-proportioned" female. Hmph. It seems I'm a little bit more than THAT.)

Good thing there is another half-gallon of ice cream awaiting me. As long as I LOOK like I weigh ELEVEN POUNDS MORE THAN I DO, I MIGHT AS WELL FILL THE BILL.

Sigh.

Later fellow taters,
Fatty McGee.

PS. STAN, I'M GOING TO SHAVE YOUR HEAD WHILE YOU SLEEP.