“Oh no,” they think, “she’s like a loaded bomb. A former fat girl can detonate at any time. All it takes is one slice of cake, and she balloons. It’s Oprah Syndrome. No woman, once fat, stays skinny forever.”
Would your parents agree to “bankroll your groovy lifestyle” and therefore be awesome in your eyes even though, let’s face it, they probably want you moving back home with them as much as you want to move back home with them?
I would also like to state that I painstakingly took the time to test out your coconut cupcake and cream cheese frosting boxed mix, and just have to wonder: is it ever inadequate? Like, ever? Because I must have had five and they all tasted like I went and had an orgasm in heaven.
I’m often posed the question of how frequently I “go back home.” I don’t go often. People ask if I miss it, if it’s hard for me, if I feel homesick, if I wish I could go home. I feel like a bad person when I say I don’t. Should I?
I should start this one by stating that I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind when I was fourteen years old, and any 14-year-old who claims she understood a Gondry film is probably lying to you.