Jail Break

As you might imagine, I have broken free of the chains that bind me. Yes. For exactly the 3rd time (in as many weeks), I have cancelled my little house arrest diet band. No worries. When I decide it’s time to go back to jail, I will simply sign up under another name. You would think the peeps running this “quasi jail for fatties” would catch on to another 750lb redhead member who loses exactly no weight, cancels and reappears days later as a man. Why would I do that? It’s called a free 30 day trial people! Let’s face it….in exactly 30 days…scratch that…3 days I’ll be back in cahoots with Little Debbie…why bother spending $12.95 when I already know the outcome. My inner Miss Cleo enables me to predict such failures and plan properly for post let down consumption. When it comes down to it, there are 2 reasons I hate the house arrest band: 1. Too many questions and 2. Lies

Too many questions: I don’t like to think anyone knows I’m fat. Whilst I know this is about as impossible as bringing back the King of Pop (RIP), let me have my fantasies. Lord knows I don’t have much in the way of real action…anyway. Where was I going with this…ahhh yes….so when I wear the house arrest band, everyone wants to know what it is. Nosey fuckers! Do I walk up to you and ask you why you are so ugly? Then don’t ask me about my “fatsessories.” “Oh, is that one of those things that counts your steps?”. “No, it tazes people who ask me dumb questions. Would you like to see how it works?” – inside voice. When I try to explain what it really does, I find myself defending my little band. How dare they call this state of the art fat zapper a pedometer! No one likes an angry fatty so I usually just say, “Yes it counts my steps.” But there’s always that closet fatty who has to tell me how much she knows about “exercise” as she’s wiping hot fudge from one of her 3 chins. “You know, they have phones with pedometers in them. Then no one can see it.” “Thank you for that technology update. Maybe you should look on your phone and see if it has an application for “Go away you annoying bitch.” I’m sure it’s there….IPhone must have that. So…as you can see….interrogation looks about as good on me as the fat band.

Lies: Lots of them. Tell me, what is the point of paying $12.95 to wear a device to help you lose weight if you are going to spend $30 a day at McDonald’s and tell the device you had salad? I feel like it knows I’m lying bcs when I start typing, it immediately wants to tell me my personal bests for the week. So I’m thinking it will say, “Hey, you ran 5 more miles than you did last week or ate 1200 less calories…but this is me…a SIF we are dealing with…here’s what I get: My personal best for the week…I spent more hours lying down today than I have in the last 30 days…. 18 hours to be exact. Who thinks this should even be included in the PB categories? Clearly a man put it there….lying down means having sex…. which means burning calories. Clearly an unmarried man. Lying down in my house means watching the Science Channel and praying the batteries in my rabbit don’t burn out before I fall asleep. And I wonder why I’m fat? Maybe if that band would slap a libido into my husband I’d actually use the thing! Hell I’d pay $12.95 a day! No lies! Where was I? Oh yeah…PB. You would think that after weeks of telling it I’m a man eating salad, a woman eating salad and a tranny eating salad and still no weight loss…there would be a box that pops up saying, “What gives fatty?” But no…I am rewarded for lying down. Story of my life…

There’s actually a 3rd reason I hate that band…tan lines. Even after I have broken up with the damn thing, I am left with a constant reminder of another relationship gone sour. Don’t worry, I’m not subjecting the general public to the sight of me in a bikini. I’m a fake n baker. Whilst the thought of skin cancer may be scary….seeing my fat dimpled ass in a thong is like an instant death ray! Not pretty. I’ll take my chances in the sun coffin, thanks.

Now that I’m not under constant surveillance, I have some time on my hands. Time spent not lying is way less stressful. So here are some things I have learned this week:

1. If one were to order fries from McDonald’s and those fries were to actuallybe hot upon arrival…there’s a trick to keeping them that way until you get back to your “special place” to gorge. Gotta leave the bag open….I KNOW…CRAZY RIGHT?! All these years the masses have been closing the bag and coming home to soggy fries. Leave it to a SIF to solve on of the great problems plaguing the fat world. You’re welcome.

2. Cheddar vs. Cheddar….all cheddar is not equal. I knew this girl (we’ll call her Kelly for fun) who liked to go to Arby’s for roast beef and McDonald’s for fries. Anyway, she always orders a side of cheddar (from Arby’s) for her roast beef. What’s left after bathing her meat in cheese…you guessed it…goes on the fries. Well, just last week, the stupid drive-thru guy misunderstood and put a slice of cheddar on the sandwich. Ahhh…unacceptable. A. It doesn’t melt and 2. You can’t dip your fries in it. Since “Kelly” was accustomed to dealing with men who don’t listen (very accustom….very), she knew to look in her bag before pulling away. Sure enough, the man who had been calling her “Sweetie” exactly every time she patronized the drive-thru, had screwed up. When she made him aware of his error he refused to fix it bcs he in fact included the side of cheddar in the bag. Typical. To a man…Cheddar is Cheddar and to a woman a dick is a dick. However comma, if the cheddar or the dick don’t serve their intended purpose then they are essentially a garnishment for which one gets no pleasure. My life in a brown paper bag. It’s all quite clear now. No more Arby’s.

3. Birthday Cake has a shorter shelf life than expected. I bought my husband a birthday cake well in advance of his actual birthday. It was on sale…or maybe on I was on my period. It’s all a little fuzzy. In any event, I decided about 3 days into my cycle that he might not like the pink flowers blooming on the frosting. I would just eat that section…to make it look more manly. Seemed like a good idea. Eating someone else’s birthday cake 60 days before their birthday is always a good idea. Anyway, well….after eating the floral section I noticed some vines that didn’t look right without their flowering companions, so I disposed of those as well. At this point I’m half way through the cake and birthday boy is none the wiser. He doesn’t like sweets….should have found that out pre-nuptial. My immediate plan was to make the cake appear homemade by transferring it to a small pan , licking the sides down to make them equal thus having the appearance that I was something other than an out of control feral beast. Ok…here’s the real reason I had to eat the cake…I had hot fudge and whipped cream in the fridge, no freakin ice cream and I was a raging PMS bitch! Yes, I put the hot fudge on the already fattening cake….and it was quite good thank you. Anyway, when I tried to piece together my downsizing plan, things didn’t exactly turn out. You could definitely tell I licked the cake…oh and ate the other half. So I did what any SIF would do, I disposed of it for good. What cake? Silly husband, it’s not your birthday yet.

As you can see, I am raging out of control. No shackles, no morals and no conscience. I left those at the alter thank you. Here’s hoping “New Me Monday” brings an impostor playing on the appropriate team. For now, I have to get ready for my girls to come for a visit this weekend. As usual, they’ve all lost weight…and I found it.