Flashback Friday: Be Cool, Alright?

I’m re-blogging this post for #fbf, because I almost wrecked my diet the other day with Boston Market Cinnamon Apples and mashed potatoes. Like, it was so.close. Too close. As in, I circled the whole of Boston Market five times, drooling, staring, frothing at the mouth. I can never be seen there again. So, I’ll just live vicariously through my past foodscapades. Is it bad that this post doesn’t make me feel shameful, but hungry for macaroni and cheese, and nostalgic for my bacon grease sweats? 

Dear Boston Market Yeller, 

My boyfriend and I visited your establishment this past Saturday, around 6:00 PM. You greeted us by yelling, “Welcome to Boston Market. What can I help you with?” from behind the counter, at least 15 feet away, before we were even in the door. While the gesture was, thoughtful, semi-courteous, it was a little overwhelming, as every single individual in the restaurant turned to watch us come in. I’m sure realizing it wasn’t the Queen of England entering, but a couple in their fat pants, was quite disappointing. Had I known I would have been welcomed so warmly, I would have worn a more supportive bra and my fancy sweats, the ones without paint and bacon grease stains. 

I want to say I appreciate your tenacity, but it just came off as abrasive. My boyfriend and I ordered the meal for 3, and we really didn’t appreciate your need to repeat this fact no less than 10 times to your coworkers and what appeared to be the lady behind us. Yes, we were two people ordering the meal designed for three people. We had on elastic pants, was that not evidence enough that we were planning on eating heartily? Also, I would like to point out that it was highly probable that we had an adult or two waiting at home. We could have been being thrifty and mindful of our diets. This could have easily been the case. It wasn’t, but it could have been. 

Furthermore, we were taken aback by your method of checking customers out. Instead of doing it yourself, you yelled our order, repeatedly, across the entire kitchen to the young man, who must have been hard of hearing, because Sparks heard what we had for dinner, while he didn’t. After the 3rd time this young man had to ask you to repeat yourself, perhaps it was time to just take over. I’m so glad that our choices, the most fattening sides possible, were repeated for all to hear. Just for future reference, when two people come in, in oversized sweatshirts and they don’t take off their sunglasses, they would like their poor life choices kept between you and them, not shared with the entire restaurant. 

I am only writing this letter to you because you have potential. The passion you have for your product is evident, but I would suggest you work on your voice level and tact. You have zero tact. None. I would like to assume that most people visiting a Boston Market have serious plans of wrecking their diets. These people are already low, don’t assist them with their impending demise. Do you want to be an accessory for death by cookie dough? I don’t think so. Just be cool, alright? Sheesh. 

Signed, 
The Couple Who Bought a Meal For Three, and Ate It ALLLLLL 

***As an aside…

If hearing…
“Mashed with gravy, Mac and cheese, and cinnamon apples for THREE!”

“How many?” 

“THREE!”

“You said, mashed, apples, and spinach?” 

NO, mashed potatoes, gravy, MACARONI AND CHEESE, and cinnamon apples!” 

OK, I think I got it. And that was the meal for three?”

YES, the meal for three”

….doesn’t make you want to reevaluate your life, I don’t know what will. It’s time for a change. My “last resort” pants are tight and I’m certain my fat is trying to suffocate me in my sleep. Help. 

WTFW: Pasta-palooza Pity Party

Ya’ll.

Ugh.

OK. I started my “food plan” (I was going to put “dick diet” in parentheses to emphasize my utter disgrace for this food plan I’m on, but, well, “dick diet” could send the wrong message. Phew. Glad I caught that before publishing.)

So, I feel like any time I start a food plan, I ought to send out a mass message. You know, like, a PSA.


This message would serve a dual purpose: to warn and to implore.

A warning, because ain’t no one seen hangry like this kind of hangry.

It starts around 8 AM, when I realize I don’t have a glazed pastry for second breakfast.

It continues when I’m rabidly hungry before my feeding time while monitoring the lunchroom as 100 students stuff their faces with food, and I can’t ask anymore if they’re going to finish their obviously-unloved-food.

I get really effing hangry when I all have to get me through the after-lunch-slump is water instead of 15 Hershey Kisses.

When I get home, and I’m positively famished, don’t even try to look at me unless you’re sprawled out in front of the refrigerator, buck naked, seductively balancing a burrito on your balls.

Don’t.EVEN.

A plea, because as much as I want a gooey, carby, chewy, sweet donut in my mouth, I can’t anymore. My leggings are starting to get stretched out. I just can’t, ya’ll.

Please, please, please do not tell me there are muffins and bagels in the staff lounge. I’ll run my fat ass down there and eat one of each while the rest of my sensible colleagues eat half of either/or.

Please don’t invite me to any parties, celebrations, or special eating functions. The second I see more than one kind of dip, mayo and cheese-based anything, and an over-frosted Costco birthday cake, I’m not giving two shits how many points the 80th dip-covered-chip I’m cramming in my gob will clock in at.

I.have.no.control. 

It’s not that I don’t want to help you celebrate. I’ll FaceTime you and sing you Happy Birthday/Congrats/Good Luck, while I eat my Laughing Cow cheese and cucumber. Just don’t let me see any of the food. 

Sweet baby Jesus and all that is holy, don’t let me see the food. 
(Actually, I hate talking on the phone, and FaceTime is the devil. I’ll just text you.)

I would like to point out that I DO NOT like the fact that I cannot be trusted at parties and get-togethers. I, too, wish that I could attend events without eating enough for three people. I am sorry I suck.

So, as per usual, the week I finally start to get my fat act together, there’s a staff luncheon. Unless you weren’t already aware, teachers, despite being overworked and overextended, know how to work it in the kitchen. The staff luncheons are one of my favorite days of the month. Not to mention, there is usually a Costco cake to celebrate the birthdays that month. There ain’t anything better in this world!

This month, the grade level hosting is doing a Pasta-palooza.

A FUCKING PASTA EXTRAVAGANZA. 

I seriously think I will need to get a sub that day.

How in all-that-is-good-and-right-in-this-world will I resist loading my plate with carby goodness and luscious sauce?

Sure, I could always just not go to the staff lounge and be sad eating my salad. But, that only works when I have not one clue that there is food to be had.

It has already been advertised.

This is my problem-the fact that, like a crack addict, I can’t even be within a mile radius of my drug of choice. When your drug is food, that is flat-out impossible.

It is going to take the power of the gods and every ounce of whatever tiny shred of willpower I have in my body to not participate in Pasta-palooza.

Pray for me.

What are YOUR methods for resisting temptations? Let me know in the comments, and maybe I can be helped. Maybe.

Enjoy these memes that I made here. Weight Watchers uses points to track food. Fuck points right now. 




All of the memes I generated here were done on imgflip

WTF Wednesdays #8

How in the crap have I been doing WTFWs for eight weeks already?! It feels like just yesterday that I chose to make my bitching a weekly, written thing (I had to distinguish written from spoken, because I vocalize my rants hourly).

Time flies when you’re being a bitch.

Today, my post is going to contain a lot of choice words. Brace yourself. Delicate flowers, you might want to go watch a cat video. 

Today is about the “Realization”. You know, when you finally realize you really can have too many cupcakes. 

Sometimes, it takes a lot. Sometimes, it takes getting into your car, in a pair of work pants that you haven’t worn in eons, and, as you squeeze into your seat, the button barely holding your pants closed, pops off and pings and ricochets off of every hard surface in your car, before it hits you in the eye, and finally, comes to rest in your fat crotch. 

Yes, this actually happened. Except, not to me (my Realization came in the form of a student being concerned about me falling on my belly, because, naturally, it’s got a baby growing in it. That’s why it looks the way it does. FML). It happened to my naturally thin, kick-boxing-obsessed boyfriend after we both gained our happy-to-not-be-in-the-dating-scene-anymore-weight. 

After he almost lost an eye to a Dockers Relaxed Comfort button, he thought about losing some weight. And, I shit you not, that’s all it took for him to go back to his Glory Days weight (watch for this to be a WTF Wednesdays rant. Men, the fuckers). 

Since I’m not a man, and my body hasn’t magically become a specimen of superhuman genetics, all of my cupcake eating has resulted in some added cushion. 

I’ve resorted to, again, getting on the Weight Watchers bandwagon. 

Years ago, I was super successful with WW, and lost damn near 50 pounds. I kept it off for close to four years doing the program off and on, and being somewhat resonable with food. 

Lately, all semblance of reason has gone out the window. Like, thrown out the window with my good arm. 

Thus, why I found myself on Saturday night, paying for three months of WW, while crying into a large Dairy Queen Reese’s Extreme Blizzard (just typing that, I’m fucking salivating and in heat). 

This first week I’m treating as a weaning period. Also, I just need some practice not eating everything in sight and I need fair warning for how much I’m going to be starving and dreaming of cake. 

The reason I loved Weight Watchers before was that I never felt truly deprived. Yes, my better-part-of-a-half-gallon-of-ice-cream-binges had to stop, but I still got to enjoy the occasional thimble-full of my favorite frozen treat. 

I’ve heard that “the fatties are in an uproar” over the new Weight Watchers points system, because it’s very restrictive. 

It’s only Tuesday, and I can confidently say, this Fatty is not happy. I’ll be positively starving on the new SmartPoints plan. It’s as restrictive as my no-longer-elastic bra strap. 

Here’s what sucks so far:

1. 12 tortilla chips are now five points, instead of three. Salsa and chips are now dead to me. 

2. TWO FUCKING TABLESPOONS of my favorite coconut cream creamer are three points. Now, I definitely can’t put my usual half cup into my English Breakfast. My mornings are ruined. 

3. This is SEVEN SHITTY POINTS:


These taste like fruit strudel. And, there’s frosting on top. But, these are no good to me anymore. I won’t be wasting seven whole points on a tiny fruit bar that I can down in two bites. R.I.P. 

4. The cream cheese chicken chili we are planning for dinner tomorrow will probably be 567 points, without the tortilla chips (I’m too scared to calculate it, so that’s just a rough estimate). 

5. And, this:


I.can’t.even. That’s practically half of the points I’m allowed in an entire day. 

I might as well just each dirt, or kale, they both taste the fucking same. 

Fuck.it.all. 

Flashback Friday: Cup O’ Crack 

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…

When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.

Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.

So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 

Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am. 

Are you ready?

OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).

Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.

Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.

Then, I eat that shit.

It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.

Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.

When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.

No, that’s crazy.

I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.

Such a glamorous life I lead.

Jealous?

 

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

A Day in the Life of Fatty

Taking a cue from one of my most favorite bloggers, Charlotte, I decided to take part in a “photo an hour” post. Of course, this will be a glimpse into the life of a fatty, not a beautiful, professionally photographed portrayal of someone anyone would be envious of.

So, you’ve been warned. 

Today is the perfect day to do this as school was cancelled due to possible flooding. This means that the opportunities to get into some serious fatty predicaments are positively endless.

Let’s see what I ate (did):


My morning started as it always does, fancy-ing up my fat. This morning, however, I got to sleep in as it began as a two hour delayed start! So, this was around 8 AM. 


I was really looking forward to wearing this bad boy to school, but the school district called a “flood day”. I was already dressed, and since my shirt rings true anywhere I go, I kept it on. This was taken around 9 AM as I headed to my favorite coffee/bakery/ultimate temptation shop. 


Because cookies are a perfectly good breakfast food. I was still hanging out, blogging, eating endlessly, and using their WIFI at 10 AM. 


I left around 11, because coffee makes me have to poop. I warned you this was going to get real. 


When I got home, I checked the mail (this is real riveting stuff. Are you at the edge of your seat right about now?). To my delight, the mailbox wasn’t just full of bullshit don’t-bend-card-inside-just-kidding-made-ya-look mail. I got a Valentine from both my mom and my aunt. My mom knows how much my boyfriend and I like vintage stuff, so she sent two adorable cards from what looks like the 50s. 


I decided to take advantage of today’s free day off instead of what I did last time. Last “snow day” I accomplished taking a nap and eating us out of house and home. So, I started the bajillions of laundry loads that always await me on the weekend. Three of those loads are merely comprised of sheets. I.hate.laundry.so.fucking.much. 


Pizza Pringles are what all mature, physically fit, health conscious adult women buy and eat for lunch. (Spoiler alert: I’m not eating a real lunch so that I can be extra hungry for Texas Roadhouse later. An entire cylinder of Pringles is practically nothing). 


I got caught open-mouthed napping. As you can see by the bottom right photo, someone almost got cut. Laundry, bed making, and eating way too many Pringles left me flat-out spent. 


After I was so rudely disturbed during my beauty sleep, I decided to be productive and put the clean dishes away. Can you see that I’m just a walking cliche? 


Because I’ve had Typhoid Fever for a week now, I made myself some delicious herbal tea with Coffeemate coconut-flavored creamer. I know how to make literally anything unhealthy. If you ever need any help with that, I’m your gal! 


At this point in my day, I’m positively famished. Like the fatty geriatrics that we are, we left for dinner at precisely 4:27 PM. My fat pants were practically falling off of me after my agonizing fast. 


What I had dreamed about and waited for all day. There’s really nothing more that needs to be said.


My boyfriend was positively appalled that I would sneak hot, buttered biscuits out in my purse, stuffed inside of a student loan bill. I thought it was entirely apropos and ingenious. 


Just taking a little peek to see if these naughty things want to come out to play. 

And…I think that’s a wrap, folks.

If this taught me anything, it’s that I have a really fucking boring life. I need to start going to the gym or something. Good gracious. 

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. 


Source
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! 

The Five Stages of Thanksgiving 


Source
We all know about the five stages of grief, but did you know there are five stages of Thanksgiving? No? Well, sit down and unbutton your pants. It’ll be a bumpy ride along the lumpy gravy train to Food Coma Town. All aboard! 

Anticipation-

Stage one begins at the first sight of a fallen leaf. This glorious sight means pants weather. Fat pants weather. Fat pants weather means Thanksgiving is a-coming. With Preparing-for-Thanksgiving-Fat-Pants, comes the ceasing of any and all grooming below the groin area. The growing hair provides warmth as the nights grow colder. Also growing, is the instinctual need to add a layer of blubber to the body for insulation. Diets begin to fizzle out; PSLs begin to replace protein smoothies; and an anticipation for what’s to come makes even the most sensible of ladies strike up a pumpkin baking frenzy before September is even said and done. 

As the days get shorter and the big day gets closer, the more competitive of eaters begin training their stomachs for the massive meal with marathon eating that includes, but is not limited to: the better part of large cheese pizzas, pints of Cherry Garcia, and entire bags of wasabi kettle chips. 

Dreams are feverish, wanting, longing. 

Delirium-

Stage two occurs during the day in question. The anticipation of mounds of gravy soaked carbohydrates and creamy cocktails to wash it all down has finally come to fruition. Despite a meals-worth of gherkins, deviled eggs, and shrimp dip,  plates are piled high and inhaled with wild abandon. Oh, the rapture. The exhaltation. The delirium. 

Food is consumed at an alarming rate, and fabric is pushed to max capacity. 

Disgust-

Somewhere between buttering a fifth dinner roll and the unbuttoning, unzipping, and unraveling of anything constricting, a realization that “filthy pig” doesn’t even come close begins to weigh on the psyche. For only a split second, “Maybe I should stop?” crosses the mind, but someone says “pumpkin cheesecake”,  and any and all semblance of humanity is lost amidst belches tasting of turkey giblets. 

Depression-

Stage four generally comes during the requisite food-induced coma directly following the unadulterated eating frenzy that went down like something normally reserved for the animal channel. After realizing that a five gallon bowl of jello salad has been demolished by only one person, in a span of four hours, a deep depression is expected.

The depression stage is especially bad if pant buttons are blown off due to the sheer force of an expanding gut, or expensive Spanx can’t even, so they jump ship. 

Phrases like: 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with me? You promised yourself you wouldn’t eat six potatoes worth of mashed potatoes again!” And, “Did I even enjoy that half a pie I inhaled?” is common self-talk. 

Usually, one must ride out this disastrous depressive stage at home, on the couch, with plenty of Maalox, hobo hair, and possibly Depends. 

Amnesia-
The last stage of Thanksgiving is amnesia, as anyone who survives Thanksgiving forgets the killer heartburn, diarrhea rash, and shame in less than a year’s time. 

Unlike the five stages of grief, the five stages of Thanksgiving are cyclical and incurable. 

Some scientists and theorists believe that there is something about the falling of leaves, the arrival of layered clothing weather and the ripening of squash that sparks something animalistic, ugly, and shocking. 

The only way to be temporarily relieved of the pressures of Thanksgiving and too-tight fat pants is to participate. One must accept that eating your weight in stuffing is just going to happen. It also helps to remember that after the holiday season, you still have a solid five months to procrastinate starting your 20th attempt at a “Summer Body Diet”. 


Source
Enjoy drenching your plate in gravy. Take pleasure in numbing your fat pain receptors with booze. Be mindful of how delicious pumpkin pie feels sliding down your gizzard. Enjoy the glorious gluttony! 

Happy Thanksgiving from Fatty Cake! 

Fat Pants 

In honor of my favorite eating day ever, I thought I’d reblog this post. Stay tuned for an all new Thanksgiving-I’m-fat-so-fuck-it post!  

I need this in my life! Seriously, though!

 
Believe it or not, I’m new to the marvel that is fat pants. Of course, I’ve always participated in the “fat pants” life, but God forbid I give my holey flannel pants, that I’ve had since middle school, a name that explains why the elastic has been stretched out for 5 years, but they stay on, because the band fits snugly between two fat rolls. God forbid. 

I can’t wait to get into my elastic waistbands everyday. Erryday. I can hardly wait to get inside the privacy of my own home before I start disrobing. My pants are unbuttoned and the bra strap has been unhooked before I even park my car. As I make my way up to the door, I’m removing said bra under my shirt. It’s a fucking art form, getting prepared for fat-pants-time. If you don’t know, you’re not doing it right. 

Speaking of…

People who lounge in jeans and say they are comfortable are straight up liars or completely delusional. Ain’t no one comfortable in denim. No one. Put on some damn sweatpants like the rest of us-your jeans-lounging is making my fat hurt. 

Now, when I said before that I am new to fat pants, it’s essentially true when it comes to the holidays. Just recently I’ve discovered that you don’t have to bust the buttons off your pants after Thanksgiving dinner, because you can wear fucking sweats to dinner. 

Who am I trying to impress with my sausage casing tights and LBD, anyway? No one in my family gives one crap what anyone is wearing. All we are concerned with is, “Where dat gravy at?” I mean, really. 

 

Pinterest always knows just what to say

 
I have spent far too many years being positively miserable after a smorgasbord of regret to even comprehend. 

No more skinny jeans that leave impressions, from the band and seams, in my skin for a week. 

No more dresses that require sucking it in, because after dinner it’s physically impossible to suck in an 8 pound food baby. 

No more fashion tights, because the band always gives way, rolls down my stomach, and doesn’t stop until it’s obvious “One Size Fits All” is a damn, filthy lie. 

NO MORE

Tomorrow I am doing Thanksgiving the Fat Girl way, the Champion Eater way. I’m going to dinner like I mean business. 

Sweatpants=no pain, all gain. 

Thanksgiving is the one day that it’s OK to eat your weight in food. I want to enjoy it, dammit. 

#teamfatpants

 

Courtesy of Buzzfeed

 

Apple Hill: Where Diets Go to Die

I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof. 

Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.

I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles. 

Get over it. 

So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip. 

Aside from my “Oh Poop” sign, this is my favorite thing ever purchased at the Hill.

The first meal 🙌

If this were the only thing I got to eat the whole weekend, I’d have been good.

Attempting a sexy “Getting Down on My Caramel Apple” look.

This was how much I predicted I’d weigh after the Weekend o’ Gluttony.

Why are these so entertaining? We had to do all of them!

What a quaint, little creek.

 

We got to enjoy a beautiful view as we got stupid drunk at the brewery.

#cloudporn

The best Vanilla Stout EVA!

The offerings that we got to partake in, quite happily!

We tried to take a picture showing how sad we were that some of our girls weren’t with us this trip. Are we convincing?

The best sight in all creation. Apple cider crumb donut. I couldn’t even.

SPERNKLES!!

Would you think less of me if you knew I ate all of these in one morning?

When this llama realized I had nothing to give it, it had no time for me, and, I SWEAR I heard it say, “Bitch, please!”

#yolo

How you doin’?

Just sippin on my diabeetus juice.

In hindsight, an apple cider float AND a blackberry treat was overkill…

THIS is an Arkansas Black, and the only healthy thing I ate the entire weekend.

Purty

Chillin with my homies.

Wine tasting and hard apple cider-where it all went downhill.

So.much.quaint

Had my “sunglasses” been centered, this would have been THE PERFECT I’m-so-deep-but-adorable Instagram snap. Shucks.

Cute AF

I felt holding my baked treats up in the sky for a picture evoked an almost spiritual experience. It didn’t look lame at all.

Adorbs

We are HAWT!

All weekend I kept seeing a “pig hole” (what are these called?) and we never seemed to be able to do it. FINALLY, I got to be the pig. It was everything I had hoped it would be.

The last goody we ate before leaving Apple Hill. I was able to squeeze it in, because I had my fat pants on #prepared

And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:

In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings.  If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.

Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps. 

So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look. 

#winning

5 Reasons Teaching Made (Is Making) Me (More) Fat

There’s a reason I’m fat, and it isn’t just because I eat Oreos smothered with peanut butter for breakfast.

It’s because I’m a teacher. This profession is rife with situations in which I’m faced with deciding between a few sad, old grapes or Krispy Kreme. Some days my big decision of the day is whether or not to eat the sweaty, homemade, hand delivered cookie. Sadly, the questionable cookie always wins. Mostly, being a teacher means you either drink or you check yourself into the mental hospital. Drinking excessively is more socially acceptable. Also, being clinically insane isn’t usually seen as a desired quality in the teaching world.

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