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Tag Archives: cupcakes

Suck It, MyFitnessPal

Dear MyFitnessPal,

Despite your claim to be my ‘pal’, I’m afraid I’m going to have to walk away from this friendship. You see, this evening it occurred to me, that you, in fact, suck.

Before you try to object, I’ve thought this through for approximately 12 minutes, and have come up with a list of very valid reasons why:

1. I just searched for the calorie content of 10 kalamata olives and 2 cups of romaine lettuce, and that is really, really dumb.

2. I love cupcakes. They make me happy. And I don’t feel I can share with you when I eat one. Or three. Whatever. Three times the cupcakes = three times the happiness, that’s what I think.

3. When you tell me I could be 112 pounds in 2 weeks if I were to just stay unhealthily under my recommended caloric intake every single day, it’s just a lie. We all know that’s not how it works, MyFitnessPal. And frankly, if you were a person, I’d kick you in the nuts for making people think this sort of behavior is ok.

4. Sometimes I go to bed with my stomach growling because you told me I was over my limit for the day. Then I have dreams that involve me being in a hot tub full of nacho cheese. That shit’s just weird. Although, I’d probably totally do it if a hot tub full of nacho cheese presented itself to me.

5. I hide my raging martini and margarita habit from you. There. I said it. And no, I don’t want to know how many calories are in my margarita. All I need to know is that it’s delicious and that I should have more of them. You should really be more encouraging about these things.

6. I exercise. A lot. And I enjoy doing so, not just because you tell me I can have an extra 600 calories today because I took a Spin class, but because it makes me feel good. For 38 years old, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself, with the exception of some thigh jiggle I’ve been trying to get rid of for 3 years and, let’s face it, probably ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ve accepted it. I don’t need you to.

7. Last, but not least, is that I’m just tired. Tired of scrutinizing every calorie I put in my mouth, and tired of feeling guilty if I consume one more olive than I’m supposed to. You’re just no fun, MyFitnessPal. Have some pie, you uptight bastard.

I feel like there should be three more reasons here to put things at an even ten, but I’m trying to let go of my obsessive-compulsive behavior, so screw it.

By the way, I know damn well I burn more than 200 calories in an hour of lifting weights, you asshole.

Sincerely,

Paula In The Country Drinking Wine And Not About To Search For It’s Caloric Content

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10 Comments

Posted by on April 4, 2014 in Diet & Exercise, Humor, Life

 

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Santa, You’re Gonna Need A Bigger Bag

Earlier today, someone asked me what I want for Christmas. Most people could probably answer this question without too much thought, right? But tonight, for some reason, I’m still struggling with this. I mean, not that I don’t want stuff. I like stuff just as much as the next girl. Especially boots. It may be a borderline boot fetish. But I guess when it comes right down to it, the stuff I REALLY want isn’t as easy to obtain as heading to the nearest Kohl’s. Nope. I’m a little more high maintenance than that, I’m afraid.

First off, I’d like to never have to shave my legs again. Sure, it’s not so bad having a nice set of fur-covered legs to keep me warm in these frigid Chicago temperatures, but unfortunately it makes it difficult to pick up men at the local gym while wearing capris or shorts. I suppose I could possibly attract a Wookiee or a Sasquatch or something, but they don’t seem like they’d be very good dinner companions. I’d like my body hair in general taken care of, really. It’d be a hell of a time saver. I’ll even take care of my own increasingly abundant nose hair. I feel this is a decent compromise.

Secondly, I’d like a person. Not just any person. A go-to person, A best friend. One person I feel like I can completely be myself with. Someone I can tell anything to, with whom I can completely let down my guard, who will tolerate my vodka and snack habit, who will take my insecure and overemotional moments and love me for them just as much as my moments of joy, love, and hilarity. Someone who’ll hug me and tell me everything will be ok, and make me believe it. If he’ll spoon me and kiss me goodnight on the forehead, that’d be pretty cool, too. Also, rub my feet. And take out the garbage. Not at the same time, though. I don’t want any various garbage juices to somehow end up on my feet. That’d be gross.

Third, (and this is a biggie, Santa, so listen up) I’d like my brother to not have to fight cancer any more. Because it’s stupid. In addition, although I’d probably never say this to their faces, because I’m the bratty little sister, and it’s hard to talk to them when they’re giving me wedgies and swirlies and such, I want to bonk ALL of my big brothers on the head and make them realize how badly I wish they’d all take better care of themselves, and recognize that I don’t want to ever have to be here without them. Sure, sometimes they’re a huge pain in the ass, especially when they get into stupid fights over The Walking Dead and Rock Of Ages, but they are mine, and without them, I’m not quite sure what I’d do. Idiots. I’m probably going to get beat up for this at the next family gathering.

I’d like to be able to talk to my dad again. In a few days he’ll have been gone four years. Man, I can’t believe it’s been that long. You know, sometimes I talk to him at night, but he never says anything back, which is ok because I’m used to rambling with no response, kinda like I’m doing right now, but it’d be cool if he’d give me a, “Good Lord, shut it already and go to sleep.” or something. That’d probably totally scare the shit out of me in the middle of the night, though. It’s weird, after all this time, I still remember exactly what his voice sounded like. I miss that. I guess you never really realize how much you miss someone’s voice like that until they’re gone.

I’d like the Monchichi I had as a child, and also my Strawberry Shortcake doll that blew strawberry-scented kisses. because I loved them; And even though I’m supposed to be mature and shit, I like toys.

I want time to slow the hell down. Although 38 is pretty kickass, what with how much more confident and happy I am than I was 10 years ago, I’m totally not digging the random inch-long hairs I find growing out of my forehead, nor how I get up and walk into the other room and completely forget why I’m there.

And last, but definitely not least, I want to be able to eat cupcakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and never gain any weight. In fact, the more cupcakes I eat, the skinnier I get. Whoa. Whoa. Wait… Whoa.

I totally just blew my own mind. I have to stop now.

But seriously, Santa… I hope you wrote this shit down, fat man.

Sorry I called you fat. I didn’t mean it. You’re very svelte for an older man. Yup. I’m just gonna go now.

 

 

 

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 11, 2013 in Humor, Life

 

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