Bitch, Don’t Call Me Fat

Food is everything. It is the meaning of life. I don’t eat because I have to survive, I eat to experience a sensation that I cannot experience from any other activity.

I like beer. I like bacon. Cheese. Bagels. Fried shrimp. Pimento goddamn cheese. Doritos are fun. Crispy potato tacos are better. Ice cream sandwiches are what dreams are made of. I would marry a basket of pulled pork nachos with homemade queso.

And you know what? I’m tired of everyone calling me a fat bastard. Because I fucking love food and I love my life. And maybe I’ve gained 40 pounds in 2 years. But goddamn it, I’m fucking happy as a pig in shit.

Maybe my titties have blown out of proportion. I may have had to donate my 34B bras and now I proudly don a 38D. Whatever. My man fucking loves it. He literally cannot stop touching or commenting on my overly large breasts.

Yeah, I’m not some dumbass model. My thighs touch. But when I go into public, people are staring at my titties. So while you bitches in your size double zero jeans and your A cup tits bag all the A-list actors, I’m a juicy bitch with a beer in my hand.

So think about it. I’m fat and happy. And that’s not cliché, that’s a goddamn fact. What I’m trying to say is, I will try to lose weight. But if someone offers me a golden plate of cheesy mother fucking bacon cheese fries, I will take it. And I will eat it. With two ranches on the side, please. And an IPA, too.

So keep your fucking opinions to yourself, you bitch. Because while you’re munching a goddamn kale salad, your man is starting at my titties and it’s awesome. That is all. I’m out.