Tuesday, March 28, 2017

WEIGHT LOSS SECRETS

In Hollywood big heads and lollipop stick bodies
are all the rage.
Advocare, bitches.
Exceptional Garcinia.
SlimFitClub.com.
Karen Carpenter.
Amy Winehouse.
Valley of the Fucking Dolls.
Cigarettes.
Black coffee.
Speed.
Cocaine.
Cancer.
The goal is to give your pallbearers
an easy fucking job.
This morning I dreamed I looked
really fucking amazing in a bikini.
The man I still love the man I never
should have loved
but I'm a delusional starry eyed bitch
was so thrilled to have me again
he crossed himself after fucking me again
for the first time in two years,
said,"Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, mi amor."
Two weeks later it was,"You need to lose that stomach."
It's a common dilemma.
The pussy is phenomenal.
Everything else has to go.
So this morning I nibbled the clickbait
because after waking up from the bikini dream
I thought,"Yeah. If I look like THAT
all my problems will magically disappear."
I looked damn good in the bikini
and the promoter gave me a rock of cocaine
and I said,"That's really big. This is my first time."
And I snorted and my brain was finally working!
Wow. Magic. Wow. Finally. Success at last
after four decades of fat ass failure.
The American Dream squared.
The American Dream cubed.
The American Dream orbed.
The American Dream. Googolplex Edition.
Order # 5057302.
I had to verbally abuse the CSR,
put on my best Talking Cheeto impersonation
to get my goddamn $4.99 back.
You can Google and find things.
You can drink apple cider vinegar.
You can drink green tea straight.
No goddamn stevia.
Live on kale.
Live on spinach.
No goddamn feta.
LITTLE DEBBIE IS EVIL.
You already knew this.
We forget things.
We drive down 1604 sobbing off
our Maybelline because it's hard
being a mujer in San Antonio
on $800 a month and maxed out
credit cards and prayers to Selena.
No bonita salon hair.
Balayage MY ASS.
Get your nails done in San Francisco
once a year. BOOM.
You're a narcissist.
Everyone sees stuff.
Everyone judges.
Twitter.
Instagram.
Facebook.
Endless selfies.
Proof.
Evidence.
"Bitch is doin' GOOD."
Is major depression a valid diagnosis?
Is any bitch NOT depressed?
Self-publish those secrets.
Color code that shit.
Eyes don't work as well
as they used to.
The idiot wind howls
and the ice melts
and the talking Cheetos
inherit the fucked up the ass
without so much as a dab of Vaseline
earth and all that matters
(forget Aleppo)
(forget drones)
(forget Russia)
(forget T.S. Eliot as prophet)
(what the fuck do poets know?)
is how good a bitch looks
in a goddamn bikini.
Burn baby burn.
NO EXCUSES.
It's free to run.
It's easy to shit.
It's Sesame Street for the conscience deprived.
Sociopaths unite!
Be ugly.
Be cuddly.
But be really fucking PBS about it.


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