CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FLABBY GUT

 

Every morning, I drag my lifeless, uncaffeinated body to the bathroom and stare with contempt at the flabby mass spilling over my granny panties in the mirror.

Maybe I’ve seen one too many Disney movies. But I truly believed the evil gelatinous creature holding my carved abs hostage would’ve been vanquished while I slept by some mystical, benevolent force. Like fairies. Or night elves. Or a guardian angel who after witnessing my pathetic attempts to NOT EAT ANYMORE FRIED FOOD CRAP, along with my minimal yo-let’s-not-go-crazy workouts, takes pity and asks God to grant me a “flat abs miracle”. Because shit stopped being funny and grew sorta sad.

 

But the flabby bitch refuses to leave, like an overly clingy friend, who doesn't quite get that I don't enjoy her company. She smiles up at me, excited at the prospect of a new day filled with sugary sweet possibilities. I'm glad one of us is happy... 

Flabby Gut:             Good morning, sunshine!

MS:                           Why are you tormenting me. GO. AWAY. 

Flabby Gut:             Hey, let's have donuts! You know you wanna.

MS:                           I hate you so much right now.