Category Archives: diets

So Maybe We Could Band Together To Fight Crime. And By Crime I Mean The Fat In My Ass


so remember that one time i worked out all the time?
or that other time where i ate super healthy?
OR that insane time that i stopped drinking?

oh, and remember when i put them all together and did that crazy thing where i tried to basically live a not-so-toxic life?

well i fell off the wagon.  because now my life revolves around stuff like this:

drippy, ecto cooloer looking motherfucker

so i should probably do something about it.
and i should probably stop polishing off jars of pickles in my friend’s homes.
and maybe i should stop laying on the couch so much.
or eating 6 bomb pops in one sitting.
or thinking that i should use that terrible sugary lemonade from the local gas station as vodka mixer.
OR day-dreaming about carbs and starch all day.

 

i guess what i’m saying is that i need to stop being such a damn pile of garbage.

so here goes nothing.
again.

PS. i thought this was funny.  but instead of water – maybe it’s vodka (which is the very thing that isn’t helping my fat ass).

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Slammin’ Salmon. Not The Movie. Just What I Ate For Dinner.


have you ever tried to eat an entire pound of salmon?

if you haven’t and you think that you want to try – i would advise against it.

 

unless you make it like this.

and then it turns out like this:

but note that after a probable failed attempt you will feel like you want to die. 

but the whole place will still smell like the delicious salmon you just made and you will think you’re in heaven.  but you’re really in hell.

so if you’d like you can dump all of the following in a pan and enjoy it yourself:

preheat your oven to 350 and in a greased pan put a pound of salmon and top it with a sliced red onion, one juiced lime, one juiced lemon, and a crapload of dill.  bake it for 25 minutes.  then proceed to eat till you puke.

also, it has been brought to my attention that the mange hounds don’t like blinds.

and now you must excuse me – because if there’s one thing i’m good at it’s making poor choices.
oh, and not learning my lesson.

so the rest of that pound of salmon will be my bitch.  it.is.written.

 

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Textual Feeling: No, You Can’t Stick Your Finger In There


a quick aside.  in that my day is crap.  but then it gets a little bit better than crap.

when i was little and had pink eye or some other eye infection shit and needed eye drops put in my eyes – all bets were off.  one parent had to hold me still, while the other had to use their fingers to stretch out my eye and put the drops in.  then i would scream like they were dropping acid in my e yes.  to this day, i’m terrible with eye drops and anything eye-related.  which is why i don’t wear contacts.  but then i don’t always wear my glasses so then i get massive headaches and my eye sight just gets worse and worse.  but i just continue suffering rather than do something to remedy the situation.  like just wear my fucking glasses.

is this going somewhere, you ask?

yes.  it is.

for some fucked up reason i could not sleep last night.  it was awful.  the type of “you can’t sleep” that has you staring at your significant other like you’re going to murder them in their peaceful slumber because you’re so goddamn jealous.  

anyway, i slept for an hour.  which was pointless and i should have just stayed up all night because the hour of sleep didn’t do shit except make me crabby, whiny, and psychotic-looking with my red, irritated eyes.  

miraculously, i found eye drops in my purse.

and tried to administer them at my desk.

which was a terrible idea.

because i drained half the bottle because i keep freaking out and missing my eye and squirting it all over my face so it just looked like i was hysterically crying.  

happy fucking friday.

but then seriously.  happy fucking friday.  because i forgot i had this in the freezer:

but now i have gut rot. because i ate too much and too fast.

b: sweet mullets?

me: i want to make cupcakes first.  i’ve had a rough day.

b: can i come over and stick my finger in your better?

me: butter or butthole?  i’m confused.  i’d be pissed either way.

b: batter.

me: no, i forbid it.

b: that’s awfully ride.
b: rude.  goddammit!

me: good job.

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Cupcakes, Champagne, and KFC


i called shitler this afternoon.  with a purpose.  to inform him what time we were going to my grandparents for dinner.  when he called me back – it was to tell me that he had KFC for lunch.  like i gave a shit.  he launched into the specifics of his meal.  

2 piece original recipe, macaroni and cheese, and a biscuit with honey.  

to which i reacted with disgust.

me: honey is gross.

shitler: no, it’s not  it’s good.  i didn’t even know.  they didn’t have any jam – so i was all, gimme some fucking honey!

me: i have to go back to work.  this has been a waste of my time.

shitler: i’m going to fucking kill you.

me: k, byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyye.

it’s like he bluffs for a living.  and makes empty threats.  whatever.

it’s not kfc – but it’s liver sausage.  and i’ve never met anyone that loves it more than shitler does.  he would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if he could.

but that’s neither here nor there.  i’m going to make these cupcakes this weekend.  only because it gives me an excuse to buy champagne.  one bottle for cooking.  two or more for consumption.  a twitter/college friend is going to as well.  and then we will battle it out via pictures.  although i’m the most concerned with how much champagne she can consume.  and perhaps how many cupcakes she can eat without puking.  so stay tuned.

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Thank You, Mrs. Seinfeld


seriously.

thank you, mrs. seinfeld – for these fucking cookies.  because they’re delicious.  deceptively so.  check out her site here.

just ask shitler – who balked when he saw me dump a can of these into the mixer:

so, you should totally make them.  and then eat enough to make you want to kill yourself because your stomach hurts so bad.

ingredients:

  • nonstick cooking spray
  • 1 c. firmly packed light brown sugar
  • 3/4 margarine spread
  • 2 large egg whites
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 1 (15 oz) can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
  • 2 c. semisweet chocolate chips
  • 2 c. flour
  • 1/2 c. old-fashioned oats
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt

directions:

1. preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  coat a baking sheet with cooking spray.
2. in a large bowl or mixer bowl, beat the sugar and margarine until smooth.  beat in the egg whites and vanilla, then the chickpeas and chocolate chips.  add the flour, oats, baking soda, and salt, and mix on low speed until thick dough forms.
3. drop the dough by the tablespoon onto the baking sheet, spacing the cookies about 2 inches apart.  press gently with a fork to flatten.  bake until the cookies are golden brown, 11-13 minutes (i did mine for 13).  transfer to a rack to cool.

this creep stared at the whole time.  while shitler watched HIMYM.

and then we had fucking chicken patty sandwiches like we were back in high school.

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The Night I Fell In Love With The Pampered Chef Mix ‘N Chop


lincoln makes fun of me because he says i never stick with anything.  i just get incredibly excited about something and go balls to the wall with it for two weeks, then lose interest and lay on the couch and watch television until something else sparks my interest and the whole process starts over again.

case in point – mini cucumber sandwiches.

a couple of week’s ago my knocked up friend had a baby shower:

.

womb. creature.

at said baby shower there were mini cucumber sandwiches.  i forgot about about that until yesterday when i had an overwhelming need to make them. 

it begins. leave all inappropriate comments below.

knives and vodka. stellar combination.

assembly line.

my masterpieces.

after i ate a loaf of pumpkernickel mini cucumber sandwiches and got gut rot – i laid on the couch and watched five hours of once upon a time.  but then i remembered that i got one of those mix ‘n chops so i immediately made a beeline for the ground turkey in the fridge and mixed and chopped to my heart’s fucking content.

i promise that there isn’t any hair in the turkey.  but if there was it wouldn’t matter because you’re not even eating it.  i am.  and it’s my fucking hair.  so we’re square.  but really, the mix ‘n chop changed my life.  i will only accept ground beef/turkey recipes that require those meats to be mixed ‘n chopped from here on out.

also – during this debacle i had to switch to rumchata as i polished off the rest of my vodka during the frantic-ness of making mini cuke sandwiches.

chuck muscled his way in.  dick.

i suppose the moral of the story is that i will eat mini cucumber sandwiches and use my mix ‘n chop for the next week or so and then i will forget about it.  upon which i will find something else to wildly obsess about for a short period of time.

Why It’s Fucking Bullshit Working At a Restaurant


ever have one of those days where you know that you shouldn’t get out of bed but you do and then everything throughout the rest of your day is terrible and therefore confirms your earlier sneaking suspicion that you shouldn’t get out of bed?

everyone’s day is long and usually filled with bullshit (unless you’re a video game tester).  but there is nothing worse than having to work your typical eight-hour day and then go to a part-time job – especially if that part-time job is at a restaurant.

people think it’s comical that i work at a restaurant.  lincoln can’t believe it because he thinks i’m a bitch.  it’s easy for me to be fake nice to be people over the phone while i’m flipping them the bird because they’re fucking idiots but it’s super, super hard to be nice to a stranger’s face when i swear they’re trying to slowly kill me with their stupidity.

case in point.
last night at the restaurant.  

below are some highlights of my fucking bullshit night.

bullshit table #1:

bitch customer: i hope you know the menu inside and out.  we have a lot of questions.
me: i’ve been here for awhile.
bitch customer: hm.  we’ve never seen you before.  and we’re here ALL the time.
me: i’ve been here for two years.

bitch customer: i’m on a NO-rice diet.  i can’t have anything with rice.
me: ok, how about about the vietnamese fresh rolls?
bitch customer: tell me about them.
me: umm, they’re wrapped in a soy paper and have carrot, lettuce, cucumber and shrimp in them.
bitch customer: there’s no shrimp in them.  i’ve had them before.
me: there’s shrimp in them.
bitch customer: i have NEVER had them with shrimp in them.  it doesn’t even say it on the menu that there’s shrimp in them.
me: *point to the place on the menu where it says there’s shrimp in the vietnamese fresh rolls*
bitch customer: oh.  we’ll have a bottle of sonoma cutrer.

observations about bitch customer:

  1. if you come here all the time then why do you have so many goddamn questions about the menu?
  2. if you’re on some schizo fucking diet – do everyone a favor and don’t go out to eat.
  3. enjoy that bottle of white wine on your diet.

bullshit table #2:

pretentious old lady customer: i LOVE calamari.  honey, we should get the calamari.
me: would you like me to put an order of calamari in for you?
pretentious old lady customer: no
me: ok.
pretentious old lady customer: i’ll have this seafood dish.  because it has squid in it.  i simply love squid.
me: ok

*the table’s order has been entered.  i come back to check.*

pretentious old lady customer: you know what, dear?  put in an order for some calamari.
me: ok.

*bring pretentious old lady customer’s entree with squid in it.  give her time to try it and come back to check on pretentious old lady customer.*

me: how is everything so far?
pretentious old lady customer: this squid is INEDIBLE (as she hands me a tiny dish full of squid that she has meticulously picked out of her meal).  i can’t even eat this.
me: ok?
pretentious old lady customer: can the chef make me something else?  like some more shrimp?
me: umm, let me ask.

*go back to the kitchen – get the green light on some new fucking shrimp.  in the meantime, the other calamari dish is up.  bring that to the table.*

me: the chef is making you some more shrimp.
pretentious old lady customer: oh thank you, dear.
me: ok.

*bring the lady her new shrimp.”

me: would you like me to wrap up this calamari for you?
pretentious old lady customer: no, this was just as inedible as the other stuff.  must have come from the same batch.  make sure you take that off the bill.  i barely touched it.
me: ……ok.

*take it off the bill.  bring her the bill.  later discover that the fucking twat left me $10 on a $79 check.*

observations about pretentious old lady customer:

  1. don’t order something because you think it makes you sound hip.  it doesn’t.  stick to sesame chicken.
  2. you’re a cheap fuck that needs to the stay the fuck at home.

bullshit table #3

me: hey folks – how are you doing tonight?
completely silent couple: *SILENCE*
me: uhh, can i get you two something to drink?
completely silent couple: *SILENCE*
me: i’ll just bring you two some water.

observations about completely silent couple:

  1. perhaps you shouldn’t venture out in public if you have zero social skills.
  2. also, thanks for the shitty tip.

 

to all my fellow servers out there – good god do i feel your pain.  if there is ever a case for how cheap, fucked up, and ridiculous people are it can be made at any restaurant across the country.

there was one thing that happened at the restaurant once.  

some legit people left this sticky rice creation behind:

i challenge you to a duel.

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Tumor Muffin Cometh.


here i stand.  i can do no other.
martin luther said that.

but i’m not standing.  i’m sitting.

because i’m weak. 
this weekend was hard on my mind, body, and soul.

it began with this:

nom nom nom

i got so excited when my entrée came that i immediately shoveled it into my mouth without taking a picture. 
i make no apologies.  that shrimp and crab cannelloni was orgasmic.
nothing got too out of hand, thank god, which is surprising considered i packed in 5 drinks and 3 shots.

B is photo bombing.

i’m currently in a food and alcohol comatose state.
monday i resume my diet and i could not be more excited for that.
in the meantime i’ve managed to pack in the following:

tumor muffin.

BACON.

beyond.

it looks like i’m obsessed with breakfast foods.
but in reality – i’m just obsessed with all food.

like this:

cock cake.

or inappropriate things like these:

i wish.

kinky pussy.

b and i are working on murdering this:

sinner.

well, with that, i must bid thee farewell.
i have a lot of drinking and bad decisions to fit into a single afternoon.

wish me luck.

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The Fucking Trepidation Takes Over


today is the day.

the day i eat and drink my fucking face off. 
and while i was initially very excited – i’m now terrified. 

terrified for how shit-tastic i will feel.
terrified for the hangover.

bear with me.  i’ve been eating shit like this for the last 75 days:

gross.

i’ve been fantasizing about this each and every day since i’ve started this diet:

heavenly.

i’m not even exaggerating about thinking about tacos everyday.  just ask lincoln.  if i remembered what i dreamt about every night i bet it would be about tacos.

so tonight i feast. 

while i’m sure it will be partly glorious, i’m convinced it will be mostly awful on my body and liver and i’ll want to die.

so to recap.
orginially, i felt like this:

i'll see you soon vodka!!

now it’s more like this: 

hold me. i'm scared.

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I’m In the Mood to Eat My Feelings


and i’d start with some peeps.  i don’t even fucking like peeps.  but they’re here at work and i would destroy them with my jaw bone and molars. 

or incisors.

or canines.

or whatever a cool word for teeth other than teeth is.

neon green means it's good.

don’t get me wrong.  this diet has worked. 

i got on the scale this morning and fist pumped.  because i’ve officially lost 27.2 pounds.

so one would think that seeing results – and good ones at that – would curb my need to stuff my face with anything that comes across its path.  but apparently not.

and eating my feelings doesn’t mean i’m sad.  in fact, i’m in a great mood.  i’m in a jubilant mood where happiness abounds and i want to eat massive amounts of cheese and cake balls. 

or perhaps just a cheese ball.  which would be awesome.

i’m not going to do any of that though.  if i ate something i shouldn’t – it would create a dangerous slippery slope and i would somehow gain 27.2 pounds back in a single sitting. 

i know it’s not possible, but somehow, with my luck – it would happen.