BODY DYSMORPHIA? NOT FUCKING LIKELY
People are afraid to die. Well, not fucking me!
Since I can’t wire up and stuff my brains into a glass jar and Live!, Finally Live! detached from this fuckin’ thick, son-of-a-bitchin body burrito I’m trapped in… I DREAM of getting some kinda great WASTING disease! And if that doesn’t happen? Like say, I die of a massive coronary, all HUGE and GIRTHY puttering around my final years in one of those Little Rascal Mobility Scooters cause my knees blew out?…if that happens? I can count on nature, FOR ONCE, to finally rot me to the bone. And then my dream can come true…and my tombstone can read, “Finally Thin” and not be a total fucking lie or only temporarily true.
I hope, “The Sun will Come Out Tomorrow” will blast on some shit boom box at the side of my grave hole… while some of you stand near, cheering, “Finally! Tanya got what she wanted! Tomorrow really is a brighter day, for dear Tanya is emaciated!”
When the bulldozer’s covered me up, pour a little drippin’s over my dirt pile then go have a party. When you enter the establishment yell, “No Hips! No Hips! Hurray!” and blow on some fuckin’ kazoos.
Now, dearest Body, let me address you directly. That’s right, I hate you, fucking Body. And your shit fucking metabolism. I hate your big fucking gargantuan “shelven” ass. Your giant flab-fuck arms. Like a baby’s waist!, your arms are! Ugh! Your big stupid boobs! I don’t want to announce my fucking womaness to the world. I don’t want You Tits making your arrivals before our Head has made its way into a room. Ugh! Your tree trunk fuckin’ legs. TUBE Legs! One thickness all the way down. Like what maggots look like when magnified.
I imagine what you must be thinking, seeing me now or if you were walking behind me on the street, or standing behind me in line at Starbucks. “God damn. That’s a circus ass”.
I’ll just have you fucking know that, NO, I’m NOT sitting upstairs in my apartment all the live long day gorging my face on fucking ice cream, Twinkies, or fucking chicken fried steak…well maybe SOMETIMES chicken fried steak. BUT ONLY SOMETIMES! No, actually, I eat normally. Less that a usual person, even. I don’t even eat fucking sweets and I’m cursed with this Denny’s body.
Yeh! that’s right, like Denny’s the restaurant chain. It’s my mother’s maiden name, Denny. But unfortunately, the restaurant string of Denny’s I’m NOT related to, at least I don’t think so. So, I’m not like the Hilton’s. I’m not the disgustingly wealthy LA Denny’s heiress out on the town losing her designer dog and mowing down on Lindsey Lohan’s pickled twat. What I am heir to is the wonderful genetic code that comes from the CRAZY and POOR string of Denny’s. I’ve got The Denny Affliction. Women with great big fucking asses and huge heaping helpings of eccentricity.
If only I were a rich fuck heiress like Paris and Nicky Hilton. I’d go right to the fucking corner liposuction joint and stick a hose in my ass fat and flip that switch. And yeh, the idea of hacking off the backs of my arms is pretty appealing too. I’ll tell you, I’d rather have “seams” at all the places I sliced off than this fucking mound of sour curd pressed into some semblance of a human form. Lumpy shit enveloping my brains…the only part of myself I like…minus the mental illness part.
Oh! Go cry! I’ll be thin SOME fuckin’ day!
(Cue “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow”)
And if you make it out to my dirt hole to say goodbye, don’t forget the drippin’s. “This grease is for my homie”.