fatdavid8

So...it's my birthday. I'm 35 years old, or as my mother prefers to think of it, 420 months. I feel like I ought to have something funny or celebratory up today, but, really, I'm just not up to it. I've been reflecting on my life to date, and I find myself wondering: where are my accomplishments? These are supposed to be my prime years, and what have I done? I mean, Jesus had done his best work by 33. Yeah, sure, the rest of his band had post-break-up careers, some of them pretty good, but, really, everyone has just been waiting around ever since for the J.C. come-back tour ... (None of the Christians I know ever think that last bit is funny. Ha!)

So, yeah, it's my 35th birthday, and, no, I don't want any presents from you (well, from maybe a few of you...singly or simultaneously, whichever you prefer *wink, wink*). So, this year, I want no CAT scans, no lower GIs, etc., mis bebs. This year, I want you to take something from me: everyone who visits my journal today is invited to take away a pound or three from my fat ass for his or her own. I'm taking a trip to Cancun on Wednesday, and I need to look good in my Speedo (last time, this damned nature-show crew followed me around while I swam ... kept calling me "Manat de seor"...I don't speak Spanish, but I hope that's something good...a Manatee's some kind of mixed drink or something, right?), so load up on some of my lard. I've got four days to drop 17lbs and get back down to 170. Get to it, you skinny, snacky-cake-eschewing bitches!


p.s., thanks for stopping by.