minieggs

I’m just so damn pissed and yeah, hurt, and even more pissed because Grandma will turn this into “Boohoo, my grandkid hates meeeee, boohoo my advice is never listened to, boohoo no one loves me”.

Literally all of this will be turned so I’m the bad person because I stood up for myself.

She has zero self-control with sweets, and literally has eaten herself sick on candy. I did that once, just once, and have never, ever even considered gorging on anything sugary like that again.

I have a bunch of Easter chocolates in my room, including two or three pounds of Cadbury minieggs (my favorite) and a few boxes of the caramel and chocolate-filled ones, a solid bunny, a cross, and some jellybeans (unless they’re the Starburst sour ones, I likely won’t eat them, honestly).

That stuff will likely last me a month, possibly more (though with it getting warmer, lasting longer isn’t a wise idea). A MONTH.

She freaking acts like I’ll be shoving handfuls into my mouth every five minutes, which is what she would do, and has done. I don’t. I’ll make sure I can clamp the bag closed, so I can nibble a few, then be satisfied and keep ants out.

Could I stand to lose a couple pounds? Sure. Am I stressing over it? No. It’s taken me awhile to get satisfied with the way I look, damn it, and I’m not going to fret over some chunk.

I can walk a mile. Maybe even two, with no issue–aside from my siatic nerve getting tight again, which, hey, isn’t due to fat, it’s just due to my back being stupid. I can’t run it, but I never really could, thanks to my damn mother making me self-conscious over my feet swinging out when I run (I’m knock-kneed).

I’m not the healthiest person on the planet, but I’m sure as hell not sick, either. I can run up the stairs and be fine. I can lift an adult. I’ll bet you I can lift and empty full muck buckets and be just fine.

But no, I’m not rail-thin, therefore I’m a fucking whale and must be shamed and guilted into not enjoying food anymore, which, by the FUCKING WAY, I still have trouble eating sometimes because my stomach likes to act up and send nausea signals when I should be hungry.

NOPE. I’M FAT. I’M A GODDAMN INVALID. I’M JABBA THE HUTT 2.0. GET ME A SCOOTER, BOYS, SO I CAN CHUG TO MCD’S AND GET FIVE BIG MACS WITH A DIET. GONNA POUND THAT FRYER GREASE, TOO, YUM YUM!