Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.

I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?

The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.

They were taunting me.

How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 

I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.

During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.

They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.

I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.

It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.

The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.

My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*

I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.

I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.

Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame

Happy Flashback Friday! 

I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte. 

Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready. 

Let me know what you think in the comments! 

Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod

Flashback Friday: Seven Minutes in Heaven-Help-Me

Image courtesy of Popsugar Fitness

I am, quite possibly, the laziest, weakest bish on this planet. You think you might be the crowning winner of this coveted title? Just wait, you will be voting for this fatty real soon. 

I was sitting at a work training a few weeks ago. As usual, I was eavesdropping. Two super fit women were discussing this free app that follows you through a seven minute workout. Seven minutes. 

Gurrrrrl, that’s so my kind of workout. Forget those hour long, sweat and puke sessions at the yoga studio. Forget the bike rides around the block that take me the rest of the night to recover from. Forget spending my hard-earned Netflix and chill with Ben & Jerry time on being uncomfortable and sweaty. Eff.that.noise. 

So, obviously I downloaded the app and gave it a whirl. 

I imagined myself looking exactly like the fit chick in the video, because in seven minutes I can do anything. 

Anything. 

Actually, seven minutes is a long time. I can’t do anything in seven minutes. 

Well, I did something, but it looked nothing like the stupidly svelte girl in the video. I didn’t look a thing like the girl who didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who doesn’t even need to do seven fucking minutes of fitness. 

This was the breakdown of my seven minutes of shame:

Oh, this is easy!! I can do a million of these over-the-head-body-ball-things.

I can feel my abs growing stronger and stronger. Also, my arms are stupid strong. 

Actually, my arms are limp noodles and I don’t like this. 

My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die. 

*looks at app timer on phone*

No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds. 

Hold up. 

My timer has to be glitching. *spends 30 seconds checking*

Oh, phew! The next exercise. Thank God. I almost puked. 

Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible. 

*awkwardly spends entire time devoted to ball balance exercise trying to get on ball*

What a friggin joke. I’d like to see anyone but Extreme Exercise Girl balance on a ball like that. 

Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay-down-fitness. 

Ow. These hurt my virgin tailbone. 3 is good. 

Yussss! Another lay down one and all I have to do is lift my legs into the air as I hold myself up, balancing my gut on the ball. 

Simple. 

Not simple. 

OK. That was a barf burp. 

Gross. 

I’m feeling insanely sweaty. I’m gonna skip the push ups to take off my bra. I don’t want to sweat in my bra. I just washed it two months ago. 

*exerts more energy in taking off sweaty bra than in the entire workout*

I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through. 

I bet I only have a minute or two left. I can do this and finish strong! 

*glances at phone*

It’s been three fucking minutes???? 

I think I’ve given this all I’ve got. Besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars. 

I bet it’s not medically safe for me to workout.

Well, I think I’m done. Seven minutes is the maximum amount, and it takes time to get to that level of endurance. 

Exactly. 

I’ll get there eventually. 

Guys, I half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout. 

I couldn’t even make it through seven minutes of physical activity.

I’m a lost cause. 

Seven minutes of exercise can suck it when there can be s’mores instead (Don’t even start with your, “But, you can have both” BS. Shhh. Let people enjoy things).

The biggest bold-face lie I’ve ever told. My favorite is when I wear this shirt to Cold Stone.



Why Wine is Not My Friend

For this #fbf, I thought I’d share a post I wrote last school year about a time when I embarrassed myself in front of an ungodly amount of my fellow colleagues. Spoiler alert: I’m as graceful as a bull moose. 

The local art museum in my town is rad. Not only do they offer many lavish costume events (last year they had a Steampunk event called Honest Abe’s Imagination Celebration where you got to view the Emancipation Proclamation. Badass), but they put on educator nights that are free, and if you attend all of the classes in a series, you get an inservice credit that goes toward your license renewal. 

Even better…

They serve free wine and delectable hors d’oeuvres. Tonight, they had stuffed mushrooms, artichoke cups, spring rolls, and moist brownies, with chocolate chips, and they were a little under-baked, so they were gooey, and melty, and…

Right. I’m getting a little too excited. Moving on. 

Did I mention before that they serve wine? Free wine. 

I’m not sure if I’ve discussed my inability to be an adult after more than one glass of any kind of alcoholic beverage, or not. In case I haven’t touched on that wonderful aspect of myself, let me quickly explain. I’m a lightweight. I’m the cheapest date there ever was. Buy me a beer and I’m done. 

So, there I was, with my peers and colleagues, drinking one sensible glass of wine, and trying not to get caught going to the food table for the fourteenth time. It was grand. We got to drink wine and eat for free. Could there be anything better to a broke, stressed-out teacher? Nope. 

Before I knew it, it was time to enter the auditorium. The learning bit. I’d almost forgotten there was an actual purpose for my being there–other than eating 18 mushrooms. 

I wasn’t even halfway through my glass of wine, and the food and drink wasn’t allowed in the auditorium. 

One of my colleagues suggested I chug it. 

I knew it was a bad idea. Anyone else after one glass of wine would be fine. Untouched. Not under the influence at all. Me? The direct opposite. 

In fact, I refuse to drive after even one drink, because I’m convinced I’m sloshed. It’s just safer for all involved if I drink on my couch, in my sweats.

As the presentation was starting, I had no other option. I glugged it down, and we made our way to the auditorium. 

Upon entering, we realized it was the wrong side, as our school peeps were saving seats on the opposite side of the room. 

We turned  around to exit, and that’s when it happened…

You know those moments that are so momentous, in a good or bad way, that time seems to stand still, and when you do move, it’s in super slow motion? 

Well, I had a lot of time to think on the way down. 

There was one more step. I didn’t step up. 

Shit. 

Is this really happening? Is this real life? 

Can I play it off? 

Can I save myself? 

Nope.

Maybe this isn’t really happening?

No. It is. 

Thar she blows! 

That’s all folks! 

No! This isn’t funny! Why the fuck me? 

I’m not the kind to fall, I’m more coordinated than that. 

I’m fat, but I’m light on my feet, like a dancer, but in a spastic way.  

Really?! Is this really happening?

Fuck. 

SMACK. 

Not only did I fall in front of an auditorium full of people-fellow educators, when I made contact, the clipboard I was holding smacked the ground, making a God-awful “WHACK”. The sound it made, as I smacked the hard concrete, reverberated off of every available surface. 

Just in case someone was not paying attention to the prelude to my long and epic fall, that damn deceptive clipboard made sure as hell they saw the grand finale. 

It’s possible that there was still, maybe, one person who didn’t witness my moves, but my teacher friend made sure it was a right spectacle with her, “OMG! YOU FELL!” (no fuck), and… her snorting. 

I am never taking advantage of free wine again. Ever. 

During the entire presentation, I was sweating profusely and praying that everyone thought it was my friend, who was wearing almost the identical sweater, who made the grand entrance, and not me. 


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WTF Monday?

Yup, you read that right. Because I couldn’t think of anything wittier, WTF Monday it is. 

I already have my WTF Wednesdays post planned for this coming week, but I absolutely couldn’t wait for the following week to share a review with ya’ll. So, you get two WTF posts this week. Do you feel special? 

My boyfriend went out of town for the weekend, so I pulled out all the stops. I slept in the middle of the bed. I ordered in from all of the places he isn’t too keen on. I left my bra, gossip magazines, and girl products positively everywhere.

I also did a face mask. 

I don’t know why I felt the need to do this when he was gone (I mean, it could be that every time I do one, he acts like I’m a ghost and I’ve frightened him clean out of his shorts), but it just felt like a girl-on-her-own-for-the-weekend thing to do. 

So, I’m sure you’ve seen the videos and testimonials for the Shills black mask that’s supposed to be so magical that many don’t even recognize themselves after. 

No? 

You know. The one that’s supposed to pull off a layer of skin to reveal the real you underneath. 

Still no? 

The one that pulls out black heads, showing a close up view of the pretties, and it’s oddly satisfying to watch. It’s disgusting, but you instantly have to do it. 

Yup. That one. 

So, I’m totally not the type to jump on the bandwagon and buy every product that’s featured in videos that Facebook, so helpfully, pops into my feed. 

But, my direct deposit had just dropped and I was feeling like a baller. 


Source

This video:

Is the real reason I spent $15 whole dollars on a face mask. I want to know this woman. I want to be her best friend. Mostly, I wanted a mask that would remove my mustache!

Full disclosure: When I first saw this video, I was sitting on the toilet. I was full-on ugly-cry-laughing. My boyfriend knocked on the door to see if I was OK, as I’m sure I sounded like a dying seal. When I shared the video on Facebook, I mentioned this and my next door neighbor responded, “So, that’s what that noise was!” 

Dead. 

Gosh, I sure know how to do a preamble, don’t I? Let’s get to the actual review now. 

It took more than a week to get the mask (after ordering it on Amazon Prime), but lucky for me, I got it just in time for Girl Weekend. 

To prep, I washed my face with really warm water to open up my, already Grand Canyon-sized, pores. 

I used one of my makeup brushes, just like the pros, and applied the mask pretty thinly. Perhaps, this was because the tube is pretty dang small, and I could have easily used the whole thing on my giant face. That’d be a pretty expensive one-time-use mask, if you ask me. Also, there are zero instructions on how to apply it. 


Once it had dried completely, I was pretty giddy in anticipation of seeing all of my nasty black heads and bad choices being ripped out of my face. 

I started from the bottom, just like I’d seen countless times. It didn’t hurt at all. I was hoping all of my chin hairs would be pulled out, much like the rooting up of trees during deforestation. Nope. Those assholes stayed firmly rooted in place. 

As I started to pull my way up my cheek, it felt like it was pulling pretty good, but when I looked, there were maybe three black heads. Three.

I don’t even want to get started on my upper lip. I was so hopeful, yet it was so anticlimactic. While utterly disappointed, I was enlightened to what it surely feels like being that dude who can never seem to score, no matter how close he gets. Just disappointing. 

Also, IT DID NOT PULL OUT MY MUSTACHE. WTF. 

I guess you have to have one of those non-mustaches that are just baby hairs to qualify for hair removal.  

When I got to my nose, I got excited. Surely, there’s enough nastiness to be had there that I’ll have a major success. No such luck. It barely pulled up anything.  

At this point, I’m pretty damn mad. What a freaking waste of $15 that could have gotten me three days worth of Starbucks.

As I neared my eyes, they watered and snot promptly started rolling down my face – I finally felt the pain everyone goes on about. 

It was terrible. 

Excruciating.

I realized it was pulling out hairs-the baby ones that don’t count around my eyes. 

What.in.the.actual.eff.

So, now it decides to actually work. 

Watch me be the only one to grow full-on, thick, black hairs around my eyes now that I’ve messed with the baby hair that once peacefully, invisibly existed there. We all know what happens when you mess with those baby hairs

Also, it didn’t all come off in one nice, clean mask. I spent ages picking tiny pieces off until I just gave up. 

When I stepped back to take a look at the mess I had made of my face, it was pretty clear that I had failed at the black mask fad. 

I’m calling my face mask ‘stache the 360 Degree John Waters. 

Just wait and see, I will grow facial hair on my entire face*. I will either have to spend a fortune on hair removal or I’ll have to resort to joining the circus as the female version of Lionel the Lion-Faced Man. 

It maybe would have been worth it had more than three blackheads been removed. 

Next. 

*I edited and filtered the shit out of my face. You’re welcome. 

WTF Wednesday #4: The Leggings Spread

It’s no secret that it’s my belief that leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately. 

I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys. 

I treat them better than my poor boyfriend. 

I never dry them, and I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?) I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer. 

Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it. 

Noticed what, you ask? 

The Spread.

Due to the elastic, forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions. 

I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months. 

That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me. 

Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school. 

Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present. 

When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as Bertha spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 

It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my spilling fat. 

The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat. 

Fuck. I’m disgusting. 

I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend. 

Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket. 

Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore. 

Bend your knees for the added power and energy you’re gonna need to cram yourself into your neglected jeans.
When the button doesn’t take the first try…
Jump. Because jumping into your jeans is the obvious answer. Sorry, neighbor. No, I’m fine. No, a large piece of furniture didn’t fall over. Just fuck off, OK?
Is it just me, or does this look like my butt is on backwards?! Something doesn’t add up here.
Screw it. I’ll just wear my leggings.

An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans. 

Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on, at least once a month, to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown. 

You’ll thank me later. 

Forever Branded a Fatty

Hey, it’s Friday! Shit, yes. So, I did a thing Wednesday. 

I got a cupcake tattoo! 

I had originally wanted to just get a tiny one on the inside of one of my fingers, but I’m kind of a why-get-the-donut-hole-when-you-can-get-the-donut kind of girl. 

So, I guess there’s not much more to say about that. 


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With out any further ado, the pictures: 


My virgin wrist 


This was the most attractive out of all the pictures my friend took. So, obviously, that’s saying something. But, you gotta have the “during” photo. 

And…


Ta-Da! 

It’s bigger than I had initially thought I’d go, and I had a brief freak out moment, but now I’m just in love. 

FATTY MCCUPCAKES FOREVER, BISHES! 

In Case There Was Any Question…


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I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.

Whew. What a ride.

I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 

The result? 

Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.

Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 

My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 


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And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 

Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 

Gross, I know. 

I’m just being honest. 

Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 

So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 

It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 

I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.

However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 

I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.

Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 

But…

No signs. Nothing.

That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 

I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 

Until.

Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 

How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 

If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.

After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.

No, I’m lying. 

After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 

Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:


So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 

#dead 💀

I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl! 

A Fatty’s Dream-LuLaRoe

You guys! Have ya’ll heard of LuLaRoe yet? If not, you’re super late to the Fatty Pants Party! 

I am not crazy, therefore, I do not sell LuLaRoe (I personally know almost all of the consultants I buy from, and they are all lovely ladies. They are not really crazy at all, other than the fact that they actively choose to sell clothes to cerifiably crazy women, i.e., MOI). So, this is not a paid review or any of that shite. 

I’m just genuinely obsessed. 

What I like most about LuLaRoe is the fact that I now wear leggings seven days a week. That’s all the days, yo.

The day my principal walked into my classroom donning unicorn LuLaRoe leggings, it was game on. 

I don’t even know what jeans are anymore. Since discovering the obsession-worthy patterns and unreal buttery softness of LLR leggings, I refuse to wear anything that constricts my fat and makes me breathless when I lean over to tie my shoes. 

No more, jeans! No.more. 

Not only have the leggings replaced all other leg coverings I used to wear, the other styles LuLaRoe offers are MAGIC FOR FATTIES.

I currently own eight pairs of leggings (waiting on a pair I just bought today). I also own seven other pieces that aren’t leggings. This is my favorite skirt of all time:


I’m a cheapskate. So, for me to buy clothing that starts at $25 a piece, LLR must be pretty magical. 

Maybe I’m delusional, and I really look like Bertha the elephant clad in seafoam and gray arrows. Or… I LOOK FUCKING AMAZING! 

Here I am in my striped Carly and my super sweet cassette tape leggings (the boyfriend calls these the “Cosby sweater ones” 😂).

For OBVIOUS reasons I HAD to have these!

Yes, I walk out of the house with these wild things on.

It was hard to capture the true green of the shirt. I really do know how to match. I promise!

This was me limbering up for Thanksgiving. In LuLaRoe, of course #duh.

I really ought to be working for LuLaRoe’s advertising department. This crazy town collage was to show how utterly stretchy and giving the leggings are. They also don’t look too bad on my second butt. Winning!

Dudes, I even voted in my LLR! I like to stray away from the norm, and I felt there were already too many face selfies with the ubiquitous “I voted” sticker.

Treatin my babies right 👍

My fat loves my LuLaRoe. Since I stopped trying to suck my fat into too tight jeans, I’ve been surprisingly happier and more relaxed. Everyone who knows me in real life ought to stop hating and be thankful my new obsession benefits those around me. 

You’re welcome. 

#leggingsarelife #leggingsarepants #yestheyareasshole

Beware the Unpadded Sports Bra

*Disclaimer: this post is about bewbs. Most specifically nipples. Yup, I just came right out and said it. If you think you’re not ready for this level of honesty, maybe pass on this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I must be the only woman left on this planet who didn’t know that sports bras, minus added padding, is a recipe for disaster. In case you are also a nimrod and didn’t know this fascinating fact, don’t do it. That is, unless you are at home or for some strange reason you are missing your nipples.

Let me reiterate, don’t wear an un-padded sports bra in public. DON’T DO IT.

Learn from me, ladies.

Last week, it was necessary to wear a sports bra to work. We were having a fun-filled day of being outside. In the sun and 90-degree weather. All day. My most favorite part of this special day is being hot, sweaty, and stinky all.day

So, I decided my only decent bra didn’t deserve swamp boob level grossness. Thus, my decision to wear my deceiving, bitch of a sports bra. 

So, there I was thinking I was being extra smart because I was going to be extra comfy all day. Also, my sports bras tend to reign in my back boobs a bit more than a regular bra, with a regular back strap. So, there’s that. 

After spending a good 20 minutes outside where it was still a little chilly in the morning air, after speaking to at least half of the staff and teachers at my school, after smiling like a fucking idiot at everyone I saw, I looked in the mirror. 

To my absolute horror, my headlights were standing at full mast, front and center. 

OMG. I COULDN’T EVEN. 

It looked like I had taped stale, hard mini marshmallows to the front of my bra. Why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me, but that’s what it fucking looked like.

Why body? Why? 

How do you undo something that’s already been done? How do you make someone unsee something they’ve already seen? 

Um, you don’t, jackass. 

What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t run home, I’ll never get back in time. What am I gonna do???!
My Mod Mate suggested tissue, but I was not buying it. Under the thin material of my bastard bra, tissue would look lumpy. People would think I had unsuccessfully tried to pad my bra. Um, no. 

Then, I was struck with pure genius! I would cover my extra stubborn unmentionables with Post It notes! Pure genius, I tell you. Genius. 

The denser consistency of the paper would surely keep those bad boys in place. Also, the sticky strip would ensure the Post It stayed were it needed to. Win.

My Mod Mate was unconvinced, but I was undeterred. 

After successfully covering the last Captain Crunch Berry* (that kind of makes it sound like I have myriad berries. I assure you, I do not), I inspected my job in the mirror in the bathroom. 

I thought it looked fine. I really did. Because I had to show my Mod Mate what a fine job I did with the Post Its, I went next door to show her I was probably going to have to patent my idea. 

“Well, what do you think? You can’t see those two beacons of embarrassment anymore, right?”

Her response: 

“OMG. No. No. No. Girl, you don’t have two nips anymore! No.”

I answered: 

“Well, duh. That was that point. No more inappropriate nippage. No?”

She then said:

“No.”

I was at a loss. What could possibly be wrong with my Post It note nipple covers? They were genius. 

She clarified: 

“Well, for starters, you now you have eight nipples. Is that what you were going for? If so? Well done.”

The four corners of the Post It notes made weird octi-nipples under my sports bra. So, instead of two innocent, albeit, unpredictable doo-das, I had something going on that was straight out of the personal fetish collection of some freak. 

Nope. 

The Post It notes came out, and tissue was put in their place, and all was well. 

I should probably listen to my friend and colleague a lot more. She’s pretty old and worldly like that. 

In ending, ladies, never fashion nipple covers using Post It notes or other office supplies. Further, if this is ever a necessity, it’s time to buy a padded sports bra (preferably not one from the $1 bin at Walgreens). 

This post is dedicated to my Mod Mate, the Oscar to my Felix, and the best damn colleague and friend I’ve ever been lucky enough to share a year-long “camping” adventure with. I’ll miss your random pop ins, how we could communicate with a single eyebrow raise, and the way you always “got” me. I love you. Enjoy your new school, ya bitch. 

*Oscar coined this phrase to name a friend’s nips, and it was pure hilarity. I had to sneak it in.