Oh God, oh God, Oh God.
Am back to Fish's Freak-Out diet. How can once-lose and lovely pants fit this tight?! How? Hmmm...could be addiction to certain Vermont-produced ice cream. Or complete winter-weather-inspired immobility. But do not want explanations. Want colossal derriere to disappear and this... tummy to take off. When, oh when did yours truly get a tummy?
Can't find your belly-button ring, can ya?
Oh, fuck off! I already know I'm in a really bad state of affairs.
How are those low-rise pants workin' for ya today?
Not so well.
I see you've added a new sticky note to your monitor there.
Yes. "NO CHOCOLATE."
I can read, thank you very much. I'm just wondering why you haven't expanded it to all food items in general.
You're such a bitch.
Well, this Inner Goddess can always fit into her jeans. You own yoga tapes. Use them.
I do.
Sure you do. But for holding up Seasons 1-3 of Sex and the City. I can see they're really working out for you.
You know what?
Yes. I'm your interior monologue. I know all.
Then you know what's coming.
Yes. And go on, if you must.
Hiiiiii-yah!
Don't forget the hair toss and the smirk of satisfaction.
Done and done.
At least the feather boa still fits.
Indeed.