GET OFF MY FAT ASS ALREADY

I originally only came here for your planet's water. Who knew your fucking gravity would make Pansy have to stay the rest of her life?

I am a fine and sturdy mare. [Read: fat from those fucking steroids.] I have been dieting since 7/1/06 when I was awakened by the same old/same old: the singing birds, the nectar on muffins, the several partially-clothed, muscular Man Servants fawning at my bedside. HO HUM. But 7/1/06 was different in that I also awoke with this thought/command suddenly screaming at me in my brain: I am going on a diet and this time I really mean it.

The "This Time I Really Mean It Diet" involves:

1. Eating less food. I do a combo of my version of WeightWatchers and my version of Special K's cereal diet. I have tea/toast for breakfast; chicken salad lunch, cereal or spaghetti for dinner. The worst? NO DESSERTS EVER. Except for those 4-5 pieces of coconut cream pie (crack on a plate) I have had since 7/1/06, I mean it about the NO DESSERTS EVER. God, who fucking made THAT rule up?

2. Exercising vigorously (my version of "vigorously" anyway) most days of the week which I do by riding my bicycle. I rode 8,000+ miles in 2007 and am on track for only 5500 miles for 2008. Shut up, you hyenas! I got waylaid this year with 3 surgeries so I have a doctor's note that excused me from P.E. Is that okay with you fuckers? God, there's a critic in every damn crowd.

3. Going to bed angry and hungry. The going to bed angry thing is nothing new but that going to bed hungry shit is really ratcheting up the Anger Quotient. And, please guys: no matter how many times you offer it up, us wimmin do NOT consider your Special Male Appendage to be an acceptable substitute for a "snack". So stuff it, already. And I don't mean THERE, either! God, you horndogs are sooo predictable.

Oh, how I have prayed for an eating disorder. I would only want it for a month or two, okay? After all, I am not greedy. I just want to be NOT FAT. Actually, currently I am NOT FAT. Just not as NOT FAT as I want to be. I topped out at 218 pounds. I did not even hit 100 pounds until after I graduated from high school so that is some Big Momma for me.

The worst is right now: Size 12 clothes are too big/Size 10 clothes are too tight. Nothing fits! Now you know why Pansy has to go to Jamaica for vacations: it's the naked resort for me until this diet thing gets me out of my current awkward-in-between size.

No. Wait! Pansy is [gasp!] WRONG! The WORST of it is this: with the dieting and the exercise I do, why in hell don't I weigh 102 pounds al-fucking-ready? I have lost just under 1 pound per week since 7/1/06. Who the fuck has been stealing those "2 pounds per week" that I am supposed to lose? I can't even manage to lose 1 pound a week. dammit.

I know, I know. It's those Magic Meals I eat the day of/day after chemo: Velveeta Cheeeezee grilled sandwich/tomato soup/7-Up. With white sugar sprinkled on top of it all. WHITE SUGAR IS NOT A CRIMINAL....it just has low self-esteem. And those steroids. Why do cancer patients get fucked over on even the steroids? Why can't we get the Muscle Steroids instead of those stupid Health Steroids? No wonder that Pansy packed on a few pounds between the steroids and the "After Chemo Anything That Goes Down Is All Good." NO, PANSY DOES NOT MEAN SHE "GOES DOWN" after chemo. Even if, you know, she does. Damn fucking one-track-mind horndogs. Which is not at all like a big hot and salty Corndog.