"You're looking at Maven, who carries within her bowels, a turd the size of the national debt. This is a bitchy woman, an alone and lonely woman, struggling, playing tug-of-war with an unseen challenger. She is an angry and hungry woman, with a twitchy large intestine with a disposition to match. This is a woman who has lived thirty-nine-nearing-forty undistinguished, meaningless, pointless, fart-laden years, and who at this moment looks for an escape -- any escape, any way, any thing, to make the disconnect, to sever the hold... And this little band around her gullet promises to be the dietary Savior --which she has hitherto been waiting for..."Begrudgingly, I'm on the precipice (not prepuce) of accepting the fact I need to be lap-banded. It was either that, staple my cake-hole (Mmmm, Reddddd Velvetttt Cakeeeeee... oh wait... Kevin's mom's Rummmmmmm Cakeeeeeeeeeeee....) shut, or end up with a death certificate on file somewhere with the cause of death being, "Fatassitis."
[Think about it. It'll come to you. Wait for it... Wait for it... Ah. There? Got it? Oh, I can continue? Whythankyouverylittle. Moving right along...]
I've got a lard-ass. Pastey-white, not-too-much-junk-in-the-trunk-yet-proportional to the rest of my body, that for a reason that escapes my comprehension, drives men crazy in one of those rare, great Bailey's Comet kinda ways that crosses racial and cultural boundaries... LARD ASS.
Let's not get confused: In the grand scheme of lard-asses, it's not nearly so lardy as to require a piano case for a coffin, should my heart decide to up and explode right about now...
(which given my current sun-shiney disposition wouldn't be all that horrible--I'm banking on my first "cardiac event" being a fatal one--and when my specialist recently told me that those statistics are changing nearly daily that most women do NOT die with their first heart attack, I admonished him, and howled out, "Don't take my HEART ATTACK away from me!!)...Or perhaps a petulant little embolism decides to take up residence in my lung or brain. However, due to an overwhelming number of medical things wrong with me, and due to my overwhelming failure to lose weight to reverse a lot of my problems, this is being presented as my last option.
Friends and regular readers, as well as friends who are regular readers (like that distinction I made right there?) may remember my plight with Atkins and Xenical, and most-recently, "Dope"-amax, er, I mean Topamax, yet metabolism be damned, it's done nothing but anger my gravitational karma.
Oh fuck, I almost forgot the purpose of this particular post.
Okay, in sum and substance, at a time and place as yet undetermined, sometime in the foreseeable future I will undergo a lap-banding.
Until that time comes, in an un-binge-ing fashion, I will be savoring every meal with the hunger of a murderer on death row, eating his final repast, keeping the faith for an "eleventh hour" pardon from the governor.
That being said, I am composing a Fat-Ass List of all places or foods I hope to consume (not all at once, mind you) and enjoy before the mandatory, pre-operative-sanity-destroying (not to be confused with the post-operative-socially-alienating) liquid diet.
As of today, my list is thus:
Vermicelli, 1492 Second Ave, NYC (nr. 78th); to be consumed: Pho, bo la nho, chao tom.- Pop Burger; to be consumed: SLIDERZZZZZZZZ
- The Melting Pot; to be consumed: What else? A bucket of fondue!
- Original Pancake House; to be consumed: Apple pancake
- Red Lotus; to be consumed: Ped Rad Prig and Po Tak
Cupcake Cafe; to be consumed: Walnut cupcake with maple buttercream- Braseiro Churrascaria (yeah, the place has a Pig in a chef's toque as their logo--what of it?); to be consumed: Meat, meat, and more meat. I don't give a shit what they give me, provided it's been cooked til the juices run clear!
