Let’s All Have Eating Disorders
It’s Sunday so I’m allowed to spoil myself and I’ll have one glass of champagne with a half chicken, can I substitute the mashed potatoes? Do I have to get mashed potatoes? Yeah, the grilled carrots thank you. Bread? No thank you, it’s summer.
A few weeks ago someone told me to get “hot and skinny for summer” and that’s great advice.
Sucking on mango till it’s shredded like floss in between my teeth. La Croix, chugged, can curb two hours of eating and two hard boiled eggs can do half a day. Salt. Try to get a green in there if you can.
Some of my clothes are baggy but none of them are too small unless it’s a day I hate myself.
Girlie stuff.
This server gives me champagne in a white wine glass and I wonder if it’s a budget issue or if he’s just as stoned as I am.
The former, the latter. I don’t know what either of those things mean.
If there’s a woman eating dinner alone at the bar, there’s a two minute monologue bubbling at her surface.
"Sucking on mango till it’s shredded like floss in between my teeth." So funny. I eat them like this too, and am always ashamed that I don't take the time to learn how to cut them properly.
The steady diet of Abercrombie and Fitch & Victoria's Secret imagery waterboarding our teen brains has left a box-gap shaped hole in the collective female-millennial's deep consciousness. We all got branded. Those fkn fuckers.