Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Get me offa this crazy thing...

So I lost 4.8 this week, which is pretty good considering I fucked up at least several times, and there was a holiday in there. Mostly I just tried to not go freaking crazy like I was in some competitive eating contest when I got home from work each day and other than that, I was pretty relaxed with the rules. I even had pizza and a cupcake. It had pink glitter on it. EDIBLE GLITTER! What a time to be alive!

That being said, I kinda feel like shit today. My dad's in the hospital because he has pretty close to zero percent bloodflow getting to his feet at this point and he has an infection on one of his toes that his body can't fight off because of the nonflow of blood. So they're going to try to put a stint into one of his lower arteries to see if it helps, but if not, he's definitely facing amputation of some, if not all, of his foot. That fucking sucks. He's already almost 80...I kinda wish he wouldn't have to go through a bunch of painful shit in the years he has left.

I feel bad that I can't be there. Everything costs too much and I can't afford to miss work at all. I just call a lot and hope for the best. I hope he'll be okay.

It's been raining the last three days in Las Vegas. Some lady probably killed her daughter and got away with it, yet I got in trouble for clocking in two minutes late today. And I lost weight. The world is weird right now.

Friday, July 1, 2011

The New FatVentures of Old TrishDina

You know, I don't like blogging about being on a diet all the time. I don't even like being on a diet, so why the hell would I wanna write about it all the time? When I go over to Jeff's sister's house, she has that book YOU, On a Diet all prominently displayed on her coffee table and I always think "man, what a terrible idea for a book!" Then I see that New York Times #1 Best Seller sticker on the front and I realize that nobody cares what I think, even though it's still a stupid idea for a book.

You, On a Diet
By: Some Rich Jerk

Chapter One:
You are hungry.

The End.

That'll be $34.95.

That being said, I kinda like writing about being fat because sometimes being fat is comical, even though it mostly sucks...which is why I'm doing all this dieting business in the first place. So like, I kinda HAVE to write about dieting. Even if I do hate it. Cause I need it. To keep me on track and shit. And so you guys can be all "YOU CAN DO IT" and/or "STOP BEING A FATTIE" depending on how bad/good I'm doing at the time.

So I guess for all intents and purposes, this is my dieting blog. It's been with me through the ups and downs and you're all here for me still (amazingly!) and I don't wanna give it up and start a new one and pretend like this isn't my one billionth attempt at weight loss blogging, you know? So I'm definitely keeping it...BUT...

Me and Dina do have a new blog. A combo blog! A COMBLOG! It's supposed to be about our adventures being fat girls in the world, but so far it's not really about much. But it'll probably get better because she's awesome and I'm awesome, so I mean, what's the worse that could happen? (complete internet implosion...) There's only a few entries now, but it feels weird not letting you guys in on it, so HERE IT IS! So please...come join us...add us...comment us...often.

And as always, thanks for being my bitchin' support system. Even when I give up on myself and disappear for months at a time. You guys rule <3

Monday, June 27, 2011

And so it begins...

In true fattie fashion, I am starting this new not-a-diet-seriously-don't-call-it-a-diet-unless-you-wanna-hear-my-six-minute-speech-about-how-it's-NOT-a-diet Diet on a Monday. I felt I needed the last few days to get shit in order. Cook some meals, stock up on good shit, get the junk outta my house, eat some Ben & Jerry's, etc.

I actually got a lot more accomplished this weekend than just stuffing my face. Listen, I'm not proud to admit that I'm a bit of a hoarder. TLC has turned that word into some kinda scary psycho diagnosis where the mere mention of it brings about images of layers of empty pizza boxes and dead cats at least six feet high in some elderly person's apartment. But mine's slightly less impactful. I just like to keep shit. It used to be called "being a packrat" until old people started dying from being smothered by their own collections of tin cans and old newspapers so the medical field felt the need to put a label on it. So a hoarder I became.

Truth be told, I've had this giant stack of cardboard boxes in the corner of my living room since the day we moved in. In total, it was 21 boxes...all filled with mystery! Well, mostly Jeff's old sci-fi books and textbooks and random clothes of sizes gone-by, but still.

The real problem is that it's embarrassing and I don't let people come hang out at my house because I don't wanna hear a lecture about it or worse, have people talk about it behind my back. I don't like people knowing I'm some weirdo who can't let go of what is literally boxes upon boxes of trash cluttering my life.

But Saturday night, I did something awesome! I got off my couch and took my TiVo remote and actually PAUSED Cupcake Wars (who will win?? I DON'T KNOW...what is that French guy saying??? I DON'T KNOWWW!!!), and started going through those stupid boxes!

Five hours and three full Lawn & Leaf trash bags later, the corner was empty! I was all sweaty and covered in dust, but I felt accomplished. And it really wasn't ALL THAT HARD...I just needed to do it. I wondered why I waited two years to attack it when it was so easy to overcome once I just set my mind to it and got the shit done. I wondered why I pushed so many people away because I was ashamed of how it looked then cried when I felt like I was so alone? I wondered how much longer I would have just dealt with the pile being a part of my life if I hadn't just decided to do something about it right there in that moment?

The irony isn't lost on me.

It's time to get rid of my own garbage and stop being ashamed of myself and start letting people in. I can have the life I want or I can keep existing in this life I hate...it's up to me.

Just gotta get off the couch...

Friday, June 24, 2011

Time is an illusion.

How the fuck is it already almost July??

This was supposed to be MY year. The year I finally got all my shit together and stopped wasting my life being fat and miserable. That was supposed to start in January. Now it's June. I'm fatter than ever. More miserable than ever. Pissed off and depressed. Just...mad at myself.

Being mad isn't very constructive though. It never changed anything before and it's probably not gonna start changing things now. So I'm trying to be proactive about this shitty feeling about life that I've had lately.

I went to the psychiatrist yesterday for the first time in six months. I ran out of all those anti-depressants he put me on like a month ago, but he wouldn't refill them until I came in to see him. But since I have that $3,000 deductible this year (Seriously, what is the point??), I had to put it off for a while. You know how they tell you not to suddenly stop taking antidepressants? Turns out they're actually telling you that for a reason! Holy shit, I've totally been so down on life. I never wanna leave my house and I don't want people around and I don't wanna do ANYTHING and I just turned into a fucking asshole in like...a week.

Was I like that before drugs? I don't even remember. Maybe it was worse because I found out what it felt like to be semi-happy, then it all went away like some weird backwards fairy tale or something. All I know is...it sucked. Gimme those damn pills.

My health...is awful. I'm winded walking from my car to my apartment, and if you'll remember, I live on the first floor. I feel like shit all the time. I've been watching all these shows on Netflix and YouTube about like the moment you die and what happens to your body when you're actually legitimately dying. I have this weird morbid fascination that I'm constantly about to take my last breath. I don't even know what the fuck that is about unless it's some scare tactic I'm trying to use to convince myself to make a diet last more than 4 hours. So far...it hasn't worked.

Long story short (too late!), July will be December and I'll either still be fucking around or I can just start now. I got the pills, I got the healthy food, I got the will to live...I guess I'm out of excuses. Wish me luck?

Monday, March 14, 2011

Why I'll Never Be a Famous Socialite.

I've never been much of a "party girl." Aside from my ever-so-dangerous love of cupcakes and balloons, my partying has always been rather tame. I'm usually the designated driver, even on my own birthday most years. And I'm not about to get all preachy here and go into a "don't be such a sloppy drunk" lecture...because we all have our demons. But I think last night I really understood why I can never fully relax and have a good time when I'm out.

We all know I have my insecurities, and they pretty much rule my life. Not by choice, but what are you gonna do, right? I don't let them fully turn me into a hermit as is exhibited by the fact that I did go out on Saturday night. Me and a bunch o' pals gathered up to hit some bars and listen to some bands at our favorite local casino, and for the most part, it was pretty fun.

That is, until one drunk-ass Angel, one of the said pals, decided we needed to go to a "classier" bar. You know those bars...they're full of trendy douchebags spending nine dollars for a shot of Jaeger and sucking on a hookah with six more frat boys who look at me like I just farted in their mouth because I dared to walk past their eyeline in all my fat glory. I don't know if you guys know this, but the Las Vegas nightlife is not very fat-friendly. Girls wear six inch heels and half a shimmery pillowcase for a dress and everyone's stumbling around and giggling. It's no place for a girl like me!

After about seven billion looks of disgust (i.e. 2 minutes in there), I said I couldn't take it anymore and that I was going back to the bar we just left to go watch fat guys play beer pong where I feel more at home. Angel stayed. An hour later, her boyfriend is literally dragging her ass back over to where we were. I dunno what happened in that hour. I can only assume the nine dollars you pay for the shot comes with a tab of Rohypnol because this bitch was OUT. He put her in a chair and tried to get her to wake up since I was their ride home and I wasn't ready to go. Needless to say, no one explained to me that she was like, legally dead at the fucking table. So, obviously, we had to go.

I had a point here. OH YEAH...so this fucking dude who is her boyfriend this week, like hefted her ass up in his arms and just fucking carried her allllllllll the way outta the casino, out to the parking lot, out to the car, laid her head down gently in the backseat and like got in next to her to cradle her head while I chauffered their asses home. Um...THAT is why I can never be that drunk. Sure, it's all The Bodyguard/An Officer and a Gentleman when it's involving some 98 pound chick like Angel. But if my big ass was to ever fall out like that in a public place, I have a feeling I'd either be sleeping it off on some dirty-ass casino carpet or someone would just like push me into a corner and put a broom handle under my chins or something so I could look like I was still partying Bernie-style. I COULD NEVER LET MYSELF HAVE THAT MUCH FUN (?) BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS TO TAKE CARE OF A SLOPPY MESSY DRUNK FATTIE. Period.

Like, in theory, I wanna think that no one wants to take care of some slopped out chick/guy EVER...but I dunno. This dude seemed like happy and proud. Captain Save-A-Ho strikes again. Like it's endearing to take care of someone like that because she's so tiny and needy...like a baby bird or something. I just...don't get it. Like all bitterness and jealousy aside, I seriously don't get it.

Anyway, it's not like I'm saying I wanna be thin and attractive so society will be okay with me getting fall-over drunk. I'm just saying...Chris Farley is dead and Charlie Sheen still walks amongst the living. Discuss.

Monday, February 28, 2011

I thought they said no news is good news?

It's hard to find a jumping-off point for updating your weight-loss blog when everything can really just be summed up with:

But I shall try...

Not a lot's been going on with me in the last...oh, let's see...four months (?) since I last blogged. Seems a lot longer all spelled out in words and whatnot. What can I say? Time flies when you're over-celebrating the holidays and blissfully unaware that your ass has grown to the size of a planet. Not one of those fake-ass planets like Pluto either. I mean a real one...like...the Earf.

Truth be told, I've only gained about twelvish pounds. Which, don't get me wrong, is nothing to be proud of. But I've really, and I mean REALLY, been packing away the junk these last few months. I mean, I haven't even TRIED to diet. I dunno what happened, really. I know my pants were getting tighter. Everything just hurts and sucks and it's like "bleh." But rational thinking took a big fucking long vacation and in its place came just this weird random brain tornado of guiltless pleasure telling me to watch Jersey Shore and eat fried chicken and donuts and yeah, let's go watch that Justin Bieber movie! Large popcorn, please.

Ugh...disgusting. I know.

I can't explain it.

I just never even thought about it. I know I look like shit. I know I feel like shit. But...it was okay. Because...right now, in this minute - nothing matters. This minute that has lasted, I dunno, four months? A year? 32 years, really? When will anything ever matter enough?

Thanks for checking in on me. I didn't die or have a stroke or anything. I just had a temporary lapse in fat judgement.

I'm going on a trip to Texas in about a month. All 400 pounds of me. Flying fat again...oh joy. It'll be my first time going home since my dad ran over my foot like a year and a half ago, almost. At least this time if he decides he needs to make a comment about my overall rotund-ness, I can point to my giant foot scar and remind him that it's not that easy to get around when some old dude runs you over on an airport driveway. The King of Guilt has met his match.

I'll try to update more. Hope you're all well.